


Bloody sheets

by ClaireScott



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Forced Marriage, Forced Relationship, Loss of Virginity, Period-Typical Sexism, Smut, love at second sight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 32,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12318039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireScott/pseuds/ClaireScott
Summary: Millicent is forced to marry a man she'd never met.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language. I apologize for all the mistakes.

The sound of the pops still whired in her ears, although the last shot was fired five minutes ago, two miles up the road. Millicent pressed herself in the shadows, shaking of fear and chill. Her plain and simple wedding gown was wet, the sleet pouring merciless on the streets, her head and the forever ruined dress. The backyard she stood in was dark and grimy, the rustling of the ruggedly awoken rats made her shiver even more. She listened to the argument lead by the Shelby brothers, the handymen also listened close-lipped, watching the street for their chasers.  
Millicent was still horror-struck by the events of the last three months, especially by what happened in the last 24 hours. In the first week of September her father told her she had to marry. In the second week of the same month he told her he’d found a man for her. She wasn’t allowed to see him, to get to know him, and, as she learned in the meantime, he wasn’t either. It was a big secret, this wedding, a clever plan to make even more money, to gain power and control, to consolidate the business of both parties – her father and the Peaky Blinders.  
24 hours ago she had met her husband for the first time, for an affiance dinner. He was about 10 or 12 years older than she and he barely spoke, neither to her nor to the other guests. Arthur Shelby didn’t look at her until this morning, when he said his vows. He vowed to love, cherish, honour and protect her, and to be faithful, to forsake all others, as long as they would live. But what if he lied? What if she was damned to lead a lonely life in a golden cage, while her husband lived with his mistress? What if he was an asshole, beating her up just for fun, forcing her to do unspeakable things? A thousand questions spun through her head, and no one was there to answer at least a few. 

The wedding ceremony had been as plain and simple as her dress, only their families to witness. The wedding party took place at a small restaurant, and beside the families a few trusted members of both companies attended the party (say companies, think gangs, Millicent thought while Arthur welcomed the guests in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Shelby). It had been a wonderful party, considering the circumstances. Seriously. But right after the starters some unwelcomed guests shot their way through the dining area and they had to flee, leaving seven dying or already dead men behind, three of the Peaky Blinders, four of her own family. The shocked look on Uncle Alban’s face, the hole in the bridge of his nose, was a sight she won’t be able to forget. And now she stood here, on her wedding day, teeth chattering, in a grimy backyard, fearing for her life.  
“Once the marriage is consummated the case is closed. There’s nothing left these bastards could do.” Thomas Shelby stated, shrugging. “So ...”  
The following silence felt unreal, seconds trickled away. The sleet turned into snow and she was so cold, so damn cold. She cried silently, pressing herself even deeper in the shadows, too afraid to run away and hide somewhere where it was warm.  
“So ... what?” Arthur asked after an eternity, maybe because nobody else answered.  
“Go on.” Once more, Thomas shrugged, nodding with his head in her direction.  
“What, here?”  
“Aye.”  
“Are you fucking crazy, Tommy?” Arthur barked, grasping the lapel of Thomas’ coat.  
“Lots of witnesses. That’s what we need. It isn’t ... well ... the best way to start the honeymoon, but ...”  
“You ... it was you forcing me to marry this girl, you hear me?” Arthur spat. “I vowed to fucking protect her, just hours before. And now you suggest that I rape her in a fucking backyard, on a goddamn pile of rubbish covered in snow, with half a dozen horndogs watching us? Is this what you wanna tell me, Thomas? This is your idea of marriage, of a honeymoon? Are you off your head?”  
Thomas sighed deeply, and shook his head: “Cool down, Arthur.”  
“No, I won’t cool down as long as you talk shit like this! Goddammit!” He let go of the lapels and took a step back. “What about the hideout you’ve arranged?”  
“How do you ..., uh, whatever. Aye, alright.” Thomas led his brother away from the handymen, in Millicent’s direction. He lowered his voice, but she was able to hear him: “Dumack Alley, Number 17. Use the backdoor. I’m coming by in the afternoon. I wanna see some bloody sheets, got it?”  
Arthur cursed lowly, but he nodded and took something out of his brother’s hand, presumably the key to the hideout.  
“Millicent? Come,” he then said, reaching out for her. “I’ve found us a safe place to stay.”  
Her teeth chattered so much, that she wasn’t able to answer.  
“Uh, fuck. You’re freezing to death, Millie.” Arthur said, as she came out of the shadows. “Tommy!” He barked. “Give your fucking coat to my wife.”  
Thomas cursed but he emptied the pockets of his coat and handed it to her. She didn’t know if it was just an illusion but she felt Thomas’ warmth enveloping her body. For the split of a second she felt better. Arthur – who, unlike his brother, hadn’t had the time to grab his coat – didn’t seem to be cold. Maybe because of his hot temper, maybe because of the fact that he wore vest, shirt, waistcoat and jacket.  
“Let’s go,” he said, taking her hand in his, leading her to the passage to the next backyard.  
They walked for half an hour through the snowfall, without speaking, hidden in the shadows, avoiding the streets. Arthur knew his town like the back of his hand, he never paused, whereas Millicent lost her compass just after a few minutes. The wind in the backyards was icy, the snowfall got dense and Arthur was clearly cold too by the time they reached Dumack Alley Number 17.  
It was a small house, a rear building, not visible from the street.  
“Here we are,” Arthur said, opening the door. “Wait here, just for a minute. Lemme check that everything’s fine in there, aye?”  
Millicent nodded – she could also wait another hour outside, as the house was as cold as a grave. They needed to reheat the rooms.  
“Alright, come in, Millicent!” He called after a short time.  
She took a step over the threshold and closed the door. She followed the noise and found her husband in the kitchen, already lighting the stove.  
“First, we need dry clothing. Go in the bedroom and take a look in the wardrobe, will you?”  
“Yes,” she answered and did as he told. 

“The ... the wardrobes are empty. I checked every single one,” she said, back in the kitchen, after opening every damn cabinet she found.  
Her icy, wet dress stuck at her cold skin, her fingertips were blue and she was still shaking like a leaf. Arthur placed the kettle on the stove and turned around, cursing under his breath. His lips were as blue as hers and now she noticed he chattered too.  
“Fuck, I hate you, Tommy. You fucking arsehole ... Are there at least blankets and pillows in the beds?” He asked and she nodded. “Alright. I’m gonna light the fireplace. Stay here, it’ll be warm in a few minutes.”  
Millicent took a seat in front of the stove, closed her arms around her lower legs, making herself small. Thomas’ coat was wet inside and out, from her dress and the snow, but she felt like she would freeze in an instant if she took the wool cloak off.  
“Look what I’ve found. They hung on the backside of the bathroom door,” Arthur said, stepping in the kitchen.  
He held two dressing gowns in his hands, one for a man, one for a woman.  
“Oh, good,” Millicent sighed, finding the strength to smile a little bit.  
“There’s a laundry basket in the bathroom. In it I found these,” Arthur said and pulled two pairs of wooly socks out of his pockets. “They may be stuck on Tommy’s feet for days, but honestly, I don’t care right now.”  
“Neither do I,” Millicent answered and got up.  
“I change in the bedroom, you stay here, alright?”  
“Thank you, Arthur,” she answered, taking the dressing gown and a pair of socks out of his hands.  
She changed in record speed, getting rid of the wet clothes right after he closed the door behind him. The dry socks felt heavenly and, after a look over her shoulder she stood naked in front of the stove for about half a minute, just to get a bit dryer and warmer. She took her undergarments, cold and wet, from the chair where she had placed them, and thought about putting them on again. She shook her head, deciding against modesty. Arthur was her husband, he would soon see her naked, presumably in the next few hours as the Shelby’s were so eager to have him consummate the marriage. She covered her body as good as she could manage in the dressing robe, knotting the belt two times.  
“Dressed again?” Arthur’s voice came from the other side of the door and he knocked softly.  
“Yes. Come in, please. Tea, Arthur?” She asked and he stepped in the kitchen, smiling.  
“Much better, isn’t it? And yes to tea, Millie.”  
He closed the door behind him and took a seat at the table. His lips weren’t blue anymore, he looked more relaxed, still aloof and imposing, even in a dressing gown and socks.  
Once the tea was served he spoke again: “I’m sorry. For everything. This mess was obviously not planned. I ... I wanted to bring you in our home, not in Tommy’s newest hideout.”  
She shrugged and enjoyed the warmth inside and out, caused by tea and the fire in the stove. They emptied the pot of tea in silence.  
“More?” Arthur asked and she shook her head: “No, thank you. So, let’s get over with it, don’t you think?”  
“Get over with what?”  
“I heard your brother, I’m not deaf. He’s coming by tomorrow, checking the sheets for blood.”  
“No need to hurry things, Millie,” Arthur said cautiously, shaking his head.  
“No need? Seven men lost their life tonight. Your brother suggested consummating the marriage right in this godforsaken backyard. I have no idea why my blood on a piece of fabric is so important but maybe we should just ... ruin a sheet before even more men lose their life.”  
“It’s because ...,” Arthur started but she lifted a hand: “I’m not interested in the details. Please, spare me.”  
Millicent got up, walking to the door: “Do you want me to be naked when you join me in our marital bed, Arthur?”  
“You’re brave, Millie.” Arthur answered, stepping to the drawers and opened one after another.  
She didn’t care what he searched for, he would follow her soon. And he did, he was only two steps behind her. “Wait,” he said when she fumbled with the knot on her dressing gown.  
Millicent looked up and noticed the knife in his hands.  
“What are you doing?” She asked. “Are we in danger?”  
“No, guess not.” He rolled up his sleeve and cut a thin line in the skin on his upper arm.  
Then he pulled the blankets off the bed and cocked his head, studying the sheets. He smeared some of his blood on his finger and rubbed the finger over the sheet, causing a smudgy blood stain.  
“No witnesses. Just our word and a bloody sheet. No need to hurry, Millie. We’ve got time. I guess I owe you at least that.”  
“That’s enough? Our word and a bloody sheet?”  
“Of course. It’s been good enough for King George and Mary of Teck, it’ll be good enough for Thomas fucking Shelby, don’t you think?”  
Millicent smiled: “I like the way you think, Arthur.”  
“I know happy marriages started with less.” He stated, smiling back.


	2. Chapter 2

“What do you expect?” She asked, after lying down in the bed and pulling the blanket up to her chin.  
“From this marriage?”  
“Aye.”  
“I expect nothing. You didn’t marry me by choice.”  
“You have rights, Arthur.” Millicent said. “And your family has a plan.”  
“You must be quite stupid or very fair-minded to remind me of my rights.” He said and gave her a small smile.  
“Every man knows his rights when it comes to marriage. But only a few women experience the graciousness of knowing the details of their duties.”  
“You are one of the graced, I guess?” Arthur asked, lifting an eyebrow.  
“Maybe ...” Millicent shrugged. “I’m not quite sure.”  
“Will I cause a real blood stain when I insist on my rights, Millie? Or did another man introduce you to the duties of a devoted wife?”  
“Your family paid for a virgin. That’s why you had to marry me, and not my older sister, who’s nearer at your age. My father performs his contracts.” Millicent answered, unable to suppress the sadness in her voice.  
“Never doubt it. No offence, aye?”  
“None taken. So?”  
“I didn’t think farther than our wedding day, to be honest. Since I came back from the war I don’t plan very much.”  
“Mhm. What about you tell me what you wish, what you like about the marriages in your family. Or the ones of your friends.”  
“Uhm ...,” he furrowed his brows and felt silent for half a minute. He sounded a bit lost when he spoke again: “Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Clean clothes. A warm bed, a willing, devoted wife. Friendship at least. Maybe peace? Fuck, I don’t know. Tommy and your father expect your belly to round at least every other year. So ...”  
She chewed on her lower lip, thinking about his words: “I see. I guess, considering your age and the little speech in the backyard, you know the difference between rape and ... no rape?”  
“Of course I do, Millie.” Arthur frowned, shaking his head a bit. “Do you?”  
“My mother told me, rape is worse. It hurts much more and is even more ... degrading and humiliating as the normal consummation of marriage.”  
“It isn’t degrading or humiliating and it doesn’t hurt. Not in my bed.”  
“Oh,” Millie said and sat up, leaning against the headboard. “I didn’t really understand the difference but she refused telling me more.”  
“You’re even braver than I thought,” Arthur chuckled, “given the fact that you thought getting pregnant is something horrible.”  
“I ... I always try to get things done, to see and to make the best of it.”  
Arthur nodded, cleared his throat and asked: “What are your wishes? Or dreams?”  
Millicent dared a side-glance look at him. He was different from what she imagined. Rumors always described Arthur Shelby as an erratic hothead who drank way too much, who participated in fistfights, enjoying violence, power and blood. He was a man a woman should fear. In fact, her blood had turned into ice, in the minute her father presented Arthur Shelby as her husband. Of all things, it had to be this man who was deeply feared by everyone in Birmingham. The fact that he ignored her at the affiance dinner did nothing for a good first impression. But now ... he seemed to be quite normal, gentlemanly, wise and fair to the core.  
“I didn’t want to end as a forever pregnant housewife. I wanted to work as a journalist. For the Morning Herald or for The Times of India. But I wasn’t allowed to leave Birmingham, let alone England.”  
“Ah,” Arthur sighed, “that’s why you had to marry me. And it’s the reason why I’m supposed to get you pregnant as often as I can. Your father fears you, Millie. Journalists are very dangerous. Put a sock in their mouth or kill them.”  
Millicent took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a second. She’d known that it was a bad idea to tell her father of her dreams. Damn!  
“He didn’t want to kill you, I guess. So he decided to put a sock in your mouth. Or, to specify: He put my cock in your mouth.” Arthur chuckled and winked at her. “Your father is a clever bugger, Millie.”  
“Beg your pardon?” She answered and scooted away, as much as the mattress allowed.  
The picture popping up in her mind was as blurred as it was disgusting. That couldn’t be ... a thing, could it?  
“Uh ... Your mother didn’t tell you, aye?”  
“Tell me what?” Millicent asked and shook her head.  
“Cock – mouth?” He made a tremendously obscene gesture with his fist and his tongue, which gave her an idea of what he wanted to say.  
Shocked, she whispered: “No, she didn’t. You’re kidding, don’t you?”  
“I’m dead serious, wife.”  
“I don’t understand. And I don’t know if I want to understand.”  
“You will. Soon enough, Millie. Just try ... to get things done and see the best in it. As you always do.”  
“Ha-ha. Very funny.”  
“As you’re so obviously shocked, she didn’t mention the other ... much darker place on a woman’s body a man can capture. Am I right?”  
Millicent just shook her head, speechless and thrown off her guard.  
“But you ...,” she started after a moment of silence. “You said it isn’t degrading or humiliating or painful. Not in your bed.”  
“It won’t be.”  
“How can ... no, I really don’t ... understand.”  
“That’s alright,” Arthur soothed. “It gives proof on the fact that the Shelby’s paid for a virgin and got a real one.”  
She snuffled and pulled the blanket higher, a shield that could never protect her from her husband exercising his rights.  
“Why ... why would one do these things?” She wanted to know after a few silent minutes.  
“First, it’s very erotic. Second, it’s fun. Third, it’s the best way to be a willing, devoted wife without getting pregnant every year.”  
“So, you wanna tell me, everyone does that? Even ... my mother?” She whispered and grasped the blanket for dear life.  
“Guess so. She sucks the cock of your father and from time to time she probably gets her ass fucked. Like every obedient wife with a clever husband in Birmingham, England, India, all around the world.” Arthur shrugged and flashed a grin.  
“You’re disgusting, Arthur Shelby ...,” she whispered. “So disgusting!”  
“Aye. That’s what I’ve heard too. So ... before you go to sleep, what do you tell Tommy if he asks you about the wedding night? Repeat it for me, please.”  
“It hurt just a bit, for a short moment.”  
“And?”  
“That’s all. Everything else is none of his business.”  
“I like the way you think, Millie,” Arthur smiled and she hissed: “And I hate yours.” 

 

After a sleepless night she felt exhausted, desperate and alone. Arthur hadn’t slept too, maybe because he wasn’t drunk enough to sleep, maybe because of the latent danger they were in. It was about five in the morning when he got up and walked in the kitchen, obviously finding his brothers Whiskey supply. The bottles clanked and by the time he came back she could smell the alcohol. Arthur was drunk. She lied still, pretending to sleep, praying he wouldn’t touch her. And he didn’t. He fell asleep and she relaxed a bit – until he mumbled her name in his sleep. Two times, three, four, before he was silent again. She got up when the sun rose and made a pot of tea, enjoying the time alone, the chance to dream herself into a better life where she was able to work as a journalist in Calcutta. Her fantasies of living self-determined and on her own were soon interrupted by footsteps in the bedroom. Arthur was up.  
She clutched the tea cup, preparing herself for a day with this somehow two-faced man.  
“Morning,” he mumbled, stumbling in the kitchen, helping himself to a cup of tea without even looking at her.  
“Good morning,” she answered cheerily, just to be loud and flashy, just to make his head pound even more.  
He closed his eyes, bugged and agonised, and scratched over the stubble on his cheeks. Then he lighted a cigarette without offering her one.  
“Thank you, but no,” she said snippy and he gave her a confused look.  
“What?”  
“Nice of you to ask, but I don’t want a cigarette. Feel free to smoke, Arthur.”  
“Of course you don’t want a cigarette. You wouldn’t get one even if you’d beg me. My wife doesn’t smoke. I don’t allow it.”  
“Uh, how bossy you are,” she said in a dismissive tone. “What else is not suitable for Mrs. Arthur Shelby?”  
“Being snippy, for example. To jangle my nerves before midday.”  
“What will you do against me being snippy or bugging?”  
Arthur took a seat opposite to her, looking her in the eyes. His were a bit red and he looked tired and angry at the same time.  
“What happened to ‘making the best of it’, Millie? Changed your mind?”  
“No,” she answered. “Or maybe yes. I don’t know.”  
“I know you didn’t want this. I will treat you respectfully as long as you do the same for me. We’ve got time. A whole life. But I warn you, Millie, and I want you to listen closely, alright?”  
“Yes. I’m listening.”  
“You shouldn’t only listening, you should understand what I’m gonna say.”  
“Alright. Go on, Arthur,” she answered, captured by the intense look on his face.  
He cleared his throat and said: “Once you say ‘yes’ to me, you can’t go back. All or nothing. No seesaw changes. I thought about my wishes regarding this marriage last night. And now I have a plan.”  
“What do you mean with ‘say yes’?” Millicent asked cautiously, leaning forward, never breaking eye contact.  
“Once you let me consummate our marriage, we _are_ married, with all the consequences, until death do us part.”  
“I will never allow you to do these things to me, Arthur Shelby.” She hissed, eyes squinted.  
“You will, Millie. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”  
She stared in his eyes, speechless, not knowing what to feel or to do.  
“You wanna kiss me, right, darling?” He whispered. “Kissing starts where words end. Did you know that?”  
Millicent broke the eye contact and stormed out of the kitchen. This man would be the dead of her sanity.


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas came by in the early evening and drove them home. In the car Millicent listened to the hotheaded discussion between Arthur and his brother and couldn’t suppress a smile when Arthur talked about a shitty ice cave without clothes and food, but enough tea and whiskey to make a company happy. They argued until Thomas stopped the car in front of the house of Mr. and Mrs. Shelby. It looked unspectacular and dark in the twilight of the early evening and Millicent hoped it would at least be warm, not a shitty ice cave without any food. Neither she nor Arthur has had a meal since the starters on their interrupted wedding dinner and she was terribly hungry. She said a hasty goodbye to Thomas and followed Arthur to the door.  
“Here we are,” he said and opened the door of her new home. “And just to remind you, Millie: This is not a monastery. This is our home. So, welcome, Mrs. Shelby.”  
He gave her a smile, a friendly one, contrary to his sarcastic tone.  
“I’m starving,” she answered, dropping a snarky comment on the monastery. “Is this an ice cave without food or a real home?”  
“A real one, Millie, and I’m starving, too. What about an early dinner?”  
“God, yes!” She sighed and followed him into the house.  
He led her to the kitchen: “Sandwiches? I’m too hungry to wait until you serve something warm.”  
“Alright.”  
She opened all the cupboards to get an idea of the equipment – and to find plates and everything she would need for a few sandwiches. Arthur filled the kettle and lightened the stove before taking a seat at the table. Millicent felt his eyes on her while she prepared a plate with sandwiches and the pot of tea.  
“Thank you,” he said politely and waited for her to take a seat before he helped himself to sandwiches and tea.  
“Enjoy your meal,” she answered and sighed happily after the first bite. “Something so simple like a sandwich is sometimes so much better than a banquette, isn’t it?”  
“The simple things are always the best.”  
They ate in silence and Millicent feared that this would be the new normal. A man who doesn’t really liked her (or maybe he did, who knew, considering his erratic temper), bound to her by a few words spoken in front of a priest. Living over years with breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner in silence, snippy comments and sarcastic answers, and a kind of drudgingly maintained respect. Maybe she should just hang herself in the attic.  
While eating her second sandwich she realised that she feared him. He changed from gentlemanly to violent temper in minutes and she didn’t know what made him flip out.  
“Arthur?”  
“Aye?” He looked up from his plate, raising an eyebrow.  
“Must I fear you?” She asked, forcing herself to look him in the eyes.  
“No. But maybe you should.”  
“Why?”  
He was silent for a few moments, leant back and looked to the ceiling.  
“I guess I’m easier to fear or hate than to like or love.” His face mirrored the deep felt sadness and the bitterness his voice gave away.  
“Oh ..., so ... would you mind showing me the house?” Millicent asked and got up to put the empty plates into the sink.  
“Ask again, but chose your words more wisely, Millie,” he answered and she gave him a confused look.  
“Beg your pardon?”  
“It’s not ‘the house’, it’s ‘our home’. Ask again.” He demanded, his fists closing, his gaze rivet on the tabletop.  
She took a deep breath and asked herself if should go with it and what happened if she decided to offer resistance. Would he beat her into obedience? And does she want to know this? Or even tempt him?  
“Would you mind showing me our home, Arthur?” She grinded out after a long pause, after he lifted his head and watched her expectantly.  
“I don’t mind at all. Follow me.”  
The ground floor offered nothing spectacular, but once on the first floor she felt relieve, so much that she sighed a little, earning her a lifted eyebrow from her husband. The bedrooms were separated, one for him, one for her.  
“The right one’s yours,” he said and she noticed that it was the room with the marital bed.  
He chose the smaller room with the smaller bed.  
“Thank you,” she said, and meant it.  
“Welcome, Millie,” he answered, pulled the key out of her bedroom door and put it in his pocket.  
“What are you doing?” She asked and Arthur gave her a small smile: “No monastery, remember? When I choose to visit your room I don’t want to stand in front of a closed door, begging like an idiot for admission.”  
“No rape, remember?” She answered, snippy once again, turned around and walked away.  
“Millie, wait.” His tone was severe and she stopped, but refused to face him.  
“Unfortunately, there are a few rules regarding our marriage. Do you listen?”  
“I do. Go on.” She stared at the wall and folded her arms.  
“For the first weeks you’re not allowed to go out. It’s too dangerous. I’m sorry about it, but Tommy already works on a solution. You’re gonna stay in the house.”  
“Alright,” she whispered and felt tears bubbling to the surface. “Is this the truth or an evil move to break me by making me your prisoner, Arthur?”  
She turned around and looked him in the eye, although she knew his facial expression wouldn’t give the truth away.  
“It is the truth. I’m gonna try to work less for the time so you’ve got company. We ... we could get to know each other. I can bring books and newspapers for the time you’re alone. Aye?”  
“So, why are you not in danger?”  
“I am. But I’m used to it. There are always people who want to see me dead,” he shrugged.  
And I’m going to be their goddamn queen, Millicent thought and walked to the kitchen to do the dishes.  
Like the obedient wife the world wanted her to be. 

Late in the evening the door to her bedroom opened and Arthur came in, wearing a dressing gown, holding a glass of whiskey in one hand, the bottle in the other. He sat down on the armchair which was placed beside the dressing table.  
“Hey,” he said and placed the glass and the bottle on the dressing table.  
“What?” She answered and watched him tilting his head back, his eyes closed.  
“Nothing. I just wanted to be with you.”  
“You want me to get used to your presence in my bedroom.”  
“Once more, you should choose your words more wisely. Say it again. And yes, maybe.”  
“I’m not a child, Arthur, and ...,” she stopped as she noticed the look on his face. She was outstared and hated herself for being thrown off course, but she couldn’t help herself. After a deep breath she grinded out: “You want me to get used to your presence in our bedroom.”  
He gave her a smile and, like the child she didn’t want to be, she turned around and defiantly showed him his back. Arthur didn’t seem to care and sat in silence in the dim room.  
By the time she woke she realised that he’d sat there until she fell asleep. And maybe even longer.


	4. Chapter 4

She laid there staring at the ceiling for nearly an hour, couldn’t persuade herself into getting up and facing a new day. Her thoughts circled around her future with a man so difficult. She imagined getting pregnant year after year, all the horrifying stories about mothers who died while giving birth whired in her ears, while the shocking, unspeakable details of being impregnated were covered by a dark, dense fog. She knew that her bravery of the first night had only been well played, convincing enough to nearly assure herself. But now, there was only fear left. Fear of him and what he would do with her body. She was scared of lying helpless under him with no chance to avoid a pregnancy. It would happen and there was nothing she could do against it. The knowledge of sharing her faith with millions of women didn’t comfort her. She seemed to have two options: Go with it or die. 

‘Maybe it’s better to get over with it, return to the strategy of the first night. Maybe it isn’t as horrifying as they told. He said it wouldn’t hurt, it wouldn’t be humiliating or degrading, not in his bed. Why should he lie? A husband has the right to consummate the marriage, even if his wife doesn’t want him,’ she thought, trying to prepare herself for the inevitable.  
The small voice she had as a woman of her time she’d lost when she spoke the vows. He could do whatever pleases him and she had to take everything he gave her without complaining, like a dutiful wife did. It was depressing. It felt like a long time ago – in summer to be exactly – that she dreamed about writing against the oppression of women, a full-time job that needed more bravery than she had, but in her imagination she had been brave enough to stand up against the whole damn manhood.  
A soft knock at the door announced a guest and she furrowed her brows. She was alone with Arthur, wasn’t she? Before she could invite him in, he opened the door and came in, fully clothed, groomed and shaved. She smelled a hint of his aftershave when he came nearer.  
“Good Morning,” he greeted and took a seat on the armchair.  
She didn’t answer, turned around and once more showed him her back.  
“Did you sleep well?” He asked politely and she hated herself for answering in reflex: “Yes, thank you.”  
“Good. So, there are a few more rules, Millie, we didn’t finish the rules talk yesterday.”  
She didn’t grant him an answer, so he went on after a few silent seconds, his voice softer than she had heard before: “In general terms: I make the rules, you follow them.”  
She nodded, feeling the lump in her throat building. May I introduce: Millicent Shelby, née Coates, Suffragette in her dreams, voiceless property of a man in real life.  
“You will never disturb business meetings. You’re gonna be honest with me, and I’m gonna be honest with you, no lies. No talking back, no yelling, no disputes about nothing. I want peace. Do you understand?”  
“Yes. You forgot that I’m not allowed to smoke.”  
“You already know that, don’t you?”  
“I do. What will I get?” She asked, thinking of the fighting spirit of Emmeline Pankhurst and Ethel Smyth.  
“You make a wish, I fulfill it as best I can.”  
“Oh. I wish to smoke a cigarette.” She gave him a provocative look over her shoulder and noticed a little smile on his face.  
“No disputes about nothing, Millie. If you want my advice, never test my patience. Just follow a few rules and we get along great.”  
“I don’t have a choice, right?”  
“No, unfortunately not. So, Aunt Polly was here in the early morning and prepared a big breakfast for us. Are you hungry?”  
“No.”  
“Are you sure? I want you to eat at least a bit, Millie. And we add hunger strike to the blacklist, aye? I won’t allow it either.”  
The tears on her cheeks came surprisingly fast, caught her off guard, and Arthur sat silently in the armchair, listening to her miserable sobbing. After a few minutes he cleared his throat and said: “I’d ... I’d like to take you in my arms and comfort you. But I guess you don’t want me to come closer, aye?”  
She nodded and he went on: “I’m sorry for ... for the rude talking in the hideout. I shouldn’t have mentioned these things. I just planned to be honest with you, to ... fuck, I don’t know. I apologize.”  
“I accept your apology, Arthur.” She said lowly, fighting to keep control over her voice.  
“Thank you. So, can we start over again?”  
“Start where? At the shooting or at the point we nearly froze to death?”  
“Not quite. Maybe at this point. Right now.”  
“Good. So I don’t have to listen to your repetition of these stupid rules.” Millicent said, her voice sadder than she intended.  
“Millie ...,” his tone was a warning but she couldn’t react another way.  
Not yet.  
“Would you mind leaving me alone so I can get dressed?”  
Without a word he got up and walked out of the room, his steps heavy on the stairs. Her soul felt like being in tumult and she didn’t really know what she wanted. Crying in his arms? Never ever speak a single word to him? Trying to be a dutiful wife, to live in peace? It would be so much easier if he wasn’t this attractive. A part of her wanted to be kissed by him, a thought that shocked her deeply, a part of her wanted his embrace, the comfort and safety he offered. And another part wanted to put a bullet in his head so she could follow her dreams.  
After being dressed she walked over to the window and watched the snow falling gracefully on the ground, covering the scrub and the trees with a white, cold blanket of sleep. For a human, this blanket was forever. The thought of lying out there, buried in the dark, quiet earth, snow covering the place of her final rest made her shudder, and she felt the hunger for life pulsing through her veins. Dying was not an option. She had to go with it. How worse could it be? She could still write when he was with the Peaky Blinders, sending articles anonymously to the newspaper, once she was allowed to leave the house. 

 

“Good Morning,” she said smiling and took a seat at the table.  
Arthur already helped himself to some tea and toast and he was busy reading the newspaper, but he looked up and smiled back.  
He mumbled an answer before focusing on the paper again. She ate in silence – once again – and all the positive thinking, all the bravery seems to melt like snow in March.  
“Arthur?” She asked after finishing a piece of toast and a hard-boiled egg.  
He placed the newspaper on the table: “Millie?”  
“What are the plans for today?”  
“Hm. Lunch, tea, dinner? In the afternoon I’m gonna meet Tommy and John at the racetrack but I should be back by tea time.”  
She nodded, thinking about that it was her job to bring lunch, tea and dinner on this table: “So, uhm, is there anything you don’t like to eat?”  
“I’m not picky,” Arthur answered, shrugging.  
“Good. May I have the newspaper?” She asked and he nodded, handing her the part he’d already read.  
It felt peaceful but she knew it was just facade. They both behaved like a bunch of untalented amateur actors on their first evening on stage. Very close at fucking completely up and far away from a raving success. Her thoughts went back to him saying his vows and she asked herself if lying each other in the faces was a part of honour or of love.  
“You kissed me in church,” she whispered because she suddenly remembered this moment she had forgotten in all the chaos that happened since then.  
“Aye. That’s what a husband does, right?”  
“Did you like it?” She asked and folded the newspaper.  
She would read the articles while he’d be on the racetrack.  
“Aye. You?”  
“I think so. I can barely remember.”  
“It was two days ago, Millie.”  
She nodded absent-mindedly and played with her tea cup, while Arthur watched her closely, until she started to feel uncomfortable.  
“Stop thinking about it.”  
“You don’t know what I’m thinking and you can’t make me stop, Arthur. You may have a lot of power, but not over my mind.”  
He leant forward, looking her in the eyes: “You think about the things that will happen in our bedroom. You are afraid. I have the power to make it both stop. The thinking and the fear.”  
“That’s not true,” she hissed, shaking her head.  
“It is true. Why do you think there are so many children in this city?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“A man and a woman, more or less alone in a bed ...”  
“What do you mean with more or less?” She asked, looking horrified.  
“The poorer you are the merrier children sleep in your room, maybe even in the marital bed. Understood?”  
“Yes. Go on, please.”  
“So, a man and a woman in a bed can make each other stop thinking, they forget about all their sorrows, their fears. It’s the only time of peace and joy, an escape from the bitter and hard life they lead. For the rich, it isn’t an escape. It’s breed. They need sons and more sons. That’s why the rich women fear the act and talk shit about it. Just because for them it’s not about finding peace and joy in the arms of another. It’s only breed, matter-of-factly and focused on his pleasure.”  
“Are we poor or rich?” She asked, lifting an eyebrow.  
She didn’t believe him, not a single word.  
“We’re the middle. I’m gonna make you enjoy it when I get you pregnant.” He grinned and leant back, obviously happy with the progression of their talk.  
“What if I don’t want to have children?”  
“Unless you’re infertile, you will have a few. It’s the course of the world. You consummate the marriage, you get pregnant, you give birth and get pregnant again.”  
“Why I’m not allowed to say I don’t want to have children?” She asked lowly, looking down on her lap.  
“You are allowed to say it, until you’re married. You don’t want children? You become a nun. Once you’re married to anyone else but Jesus, children are a given.”  
She wiped tears from her cheeks and he sighed: “If you want my advice, Millie, just try to trust me and let it happen.”  
Millicent nodded and stood up: “Thank you for your patience and the explanation, Arthur.”  
There was no way out. He wasn’t an ally, he was her husband and he had an order he was quite eager to fulfill.  
The only thing she could was going with it and writing articles on the subject. Blazing, rousing essays against the oppression of women. Written in private, in her alone time, sent under a pseudonym to a dozen newspapers.


	5. Chapter 5

In the fourth week of her marriage Millicent skipped the plan of writing for a newspaper – just because never anything of interest happened. They mostly lived like brother and sister, except for the fact that he visited the armchair in her bedroom on a regular basis. Either in the evenings or in the mornings, on some days one as well as the other, he took a seat in the armchair and watched her. He barely talked, he just watched. Since the kiss in front of the altar he hadn’t touched her, since leaving Dumack Alley she’d never been outside. Yet, her pride kept her from begging, but she felt her resistance melting. She wanted some fresh air, a little bit of pale January sunshine on her face. And she longed for someone to talk to. Before falling asleep in this very cold and dark January night she took a decision. She would talk to Arthur on the next day, showing herself to him, how lonely she felt, how much she wanted to go out. 

Deep in the night she awoke with a start. A door banged, presumably the front door. She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and with a jar her bedroom door opened. Arthur stumbled in, the hand lantern in his hand guttered. He placed the lantern on the dressing table and got rid of his jacket, his bow tie and the waistcoat.  
“Arthur?”  
“Hm?”  
“You ... you took the wrong door. This is my room.”  
“It’s our room, wife.” He mumbled, his tongue heavy from alcohol. “Our bloody room!”  
He stepped out of his pants, pulled his socks of and got rid of his shirt and vest. He stood in front of the bed wearing nothing than the underpants, his hear messy, his gaze hazy. And still, he was so very attractive. The hard lines of his body, the freckles, the ... tattoo on his chest, she had never seen before.  
‘At least he’s handsome,’ she thought. ‘A very nice view to look at. Could have been worse.’  
He came nearer, crawling over her to the free bedside, and in the process she could smell whiskey and all the other scents sticking in his hair, on his skin. Predominantly opium. A hint of tobacco and his very own scent. She knew the sweet and heavy aroma of opium because her father smoked it from time to time.  
Arthur fought with the blankets, won, and turned around, sleeping in the second he laid still. Millicent took a deep breath and thought about sleeping in his bed.  
No. He for sure would be furious when she slept in his bed in a night he chose to sleep in hers. She got up, hissing as her foot touched the cold floor, and extinguished the lantern, before hurrying back under the warm blankets. She laid there for about an hour, not able to sleep, listening to Arthur’s even breathing. From time to time he snored a little, but not too worse. She relaxed more and more, ready to go back to sleep when Arthur started to struggle, to mumble, to be twitchy, his sleep clearly fitful.  
“No, no, let me ..., no, oh bloody hell!” He mumbled in his sleep, “Bobbie? Fuck, no, no, Bobbie!”  
“Arthur?” She whispered, sitting up, trying to get at least a glimpse on him in the darkness.  
“Bloody Turks, fucking bastards,” he whispered, tossing and turning, pulled the blankets away and threw them on the floor. “No, Bobbie, no, no, wait, wait ... fuck!”  
“Arthur?” She asked once again, placing her hand on his shoulder to calm him, comfort him.  
He reacted immediately, grabbed her and turned her around on her belly, kept her arm on her back, his fist closed around her wrist. His body was pressed against her and she could feel his warm breath on her cheek.  
“You’re hurting me, Arthur, please, stop! You’re dreaming, wake up, please!” Millicent called, and tried to free her other arm that was captured under her body.  
But Arthur’s weight made it all but impossible to move only an inch. She bucked against him, tried to kick at least on his ankles to wake him up.  
The grip on her wrist loosened a bit and he held still for a few seconds.  
“Arthur?” She whispered, so low she could barely hear herself because of his heavy breathing at her ear.  
“Aye?”  
“You’re hurting me.”  
“’M sorry.” He let go of her wrist and she moved her arm in a position that didn’t hurt, placed her hand on the mattress. “You smell so good, darling,” he whispered, taking a deep breath, his nose pressed in her hair.  
“Thank you.”  
He closed his hands around her waist, keeping her in place, his weight still pressing her down, his skin so hot she was able to feel the heat through her nightgown.  
“You married?” He asked and Millicent furrowed her brows in confusion: “Yes, I am.”  
“Lucky guy,” Arthur answered inarticulately and she wondered if he was still dreaming, if it was the alcohol or the opium controlling his tongue.  
She laid still, not knowing what to do, and it lasted about a minute before he began kissing her neck, little, sweet kisses, his hands caressing her sides. His mustache multiplied the sensations caused by his lips and she felt her breathing going deeper. He bit softly in her earlobe, licked over some very sensitive spots on her neck and she closed her eyes because it felt so good. Suddenly, it wasn’t so bad anymore to be under him, motionless and held by strong, warm hands.  
“How does that feel?” He asked and added after a few more kisses: “Fuck, I want you so bad.”  
“Arthur,” she whispered, afraid of him going too far in his intoxication, of hurting her because he lost control. “Please, you’re drunk.”  
“Want ya, sweetheart, need ya.” A deep moan came out of his throat and she felt his hips grinding against her, his hands once again closed around her waist, holding her still and in place. “I’m so hard for you, feel it?”  
Short, slow motions against her backside, hot breath at her ear, low moans. Actually, she felt something hot and hard pressed against her ass, and after a few more seconds she had the feeling of a little wet spot on her nightgown, rubbing over her skin. Suddenly, a memory bubbled on the surface, a long forgotten night. 

_She woke up in the middle of the night, and felt the remaining fear of a disturbing nightmare. She was about five years old and needed her Mom’s comfort. So she got up and walked the few steps to the master bedroom. She opened the door and the first thing she noticed was the candlelight. Her parents weren’t asleep. She saw her father pressing her mother down in the mattress, her legs bent, his hips moving forward and backward in a slow and steady rhythm, just like Arthur’s hips against her own backside right now._  
_“Pull out, James, please, pull out,” she heard her mother whimpering. “I beg you!”_  
_“No,” her father panted, “after three girls you still owe me a son, wife.”_

Millicent knew that her mother gave birth to a son a few weeks after her own sixth birthday. James Junior died when he was about three months old. And she witnessed the night James Junior was fathered. This was what it looks like to consummate the marriage.  
“Arthur, please, no ...,” she said once more and searched with her free hand for his, pulling it off her waist.  
“Bloody hell,” he whispered and the movement stopped. It cost him a few seconds to come out of his daze and he seemed still to be barely awake when he asked: “What the fuck are you doing in my bed, Millie?”  
“I ... I don’t know. I did nothing, but you did ... things ... And you’re in my ... in our bed.”  
He lifted his head, looking around in the nearly darkness: “Oh, fuck, you’re right. Did I hurt ya?”  
“I’m ... I’m fine, thank you.” She whispered and he let go of her.  
“I’m so sorry, Millie.”  
“It’s alright. You got a nightmare, that’s all. Go back to sleep, Arthur, aye?”  
“Aye. Where are the blankets? We’re freezing to death, again.”  
“You threw them on the floor, Arthur. On your side.”  
He mumbled something she didn’t understand and turned around, searching for the blankets. He covered them both with the duvet and the woollen blankets.  
“Good?” He asked and she nodded.  
He bent over and placed a kiss on her temple, before turning around again, showing her his back. Soon, his breathing was even and steady, he slept again. And Millicent felt something new, a longing for a few more kisses and licks on her neck by a sober Arthur.


	6. Chapter 6

_ Messages from the seraglio _

_Did you ever heard of a place named seraglio, dear reader? Seraglio means “palace”, or just the sequestered living quarters used by wives and concubines in an Ottoman household, owned by a Pasha. This is where I live. Not in the Ottoman Empire, of course, but in a quite little palace in a British city, bereft of freedom, choice and voice, owned by a very British Pasha. Being a dutiful wife to him is my fate, a fate I didn’t choose. Men chose it for me, without asking, without hearing me. I was presented with a fait accompli._  
_So, who am I?_  
_I am a woman of 22 years, a dreamer, too shy to speak on rallies, so my weapon of choice is the pen. I was born and raised in an antediluvian family, always wondering why my mother didn’t raise her voice against her husband. Like she, I’ve been raised to be an oppressed woman._  
_I am married to an older man, a veteran who served in Turkey, who’d seen a seraglio with his very own eyes. He was raised to be a leader, to fight and to command. His temper is louche, infamous and as short as a powder fuse, his past is shattering and bloody and the war still has him in its claws._  
_I have to spend my days in this palace I must address as “our home”, he spends the nights in Turkey, plagued by nightmares._  
_We’re not married for a long time, just a few weeks. We’re still trying to get to know each other, to explore our marriage and to figure out how to deal with this situation we’re both captured in. Of course, he’s the head of the household, so it’s mostly me who has to deal with difficulties. But the exception proves the rule and there’s one field in our marriage he hasn’t entered so far. He’s still trying to find a way into the women’s quarter, but I refuse my cooperation and deny him access, like it should be the right of every woman, married or not._  
_Meanwhile I’m seeking a way out of my golden cage, to live my life the way I choose. Not that he’s a bad man, don’t get me wrong, but I prefer to choose my husband by myself._  
_I don’t want to be voiceless, without any rights, I don’t want to be Mrs. Pasha. I got a name for myself. And I’m going to use it. Not for this column, of course. I had to choose a pen name and under this name I’m going to inform you, dear reader, at irregular intervals, about my journey starting with an arranged marriage and the destination of freedom for me and for all the other women living in seraglios among us._

_Yours sincerly,_

_Meara Justine_

 

Millicent read it over and over, thinking about re-writing it a thousand times. Was it a clever decision to choose her grandmother’s names as a pen name? Was it clever to reveal where Arthur had served? Sure, he didn’t serve only in Turkey, he’d been in France too, and a hundred thousand other men had been there, but ... she would have to lie so much in this column, just to disguise her identity, and the Turkey thing was the peg for the title. She had no idea if Arthur had ever seen something like a seraglio, much less been in one, but he for sure had been in whorehouses, which wasn’t any better. 

 

“Millie?” Arthur called and she hid the letter hastily in the drawer of the dressing table she used as a desk.  
“I’m coming!” She answered and hurried downstairs, now noticing that it was already pitch dark outside and that she’d forgotten the time while writing.  
“What’s for dinner?” He asked and turned on the lights. “I’m coming home and the house is dark ... I was a bit worried when I reached the front door.”  
“I ... I was upstairs. In my ... our bedroom.”  
“Did you sleep? Do you feel poorly?”  
“No, I’m fine. I was ... writing. A ... a letter.” God, she was such a bad liar. Millie cursed inwardly and tried to calm her nerves.  
Making Arthur angry was a bad idea, making him suspicious either.  
“A letter?” Arthur asked, lifting his brows. “To whom?”  
“Uh, my sister Katie. She was the one who wasn’t able to attend our wedding, you remember? I didn’t talk to her for weeks now and I want her to know that I’m fine.”  
“Send my regards, will you?” He asked, giving her a little smile.  
“Sure.”  
“So, what about dinner? I have a meeting at the Garrison’s at 9 o’clock sharp, but I will be back not later than 10:30.”  
“Dinner’s ready in about ten minutes. You good with that?” She asked and ignited the stove to warm the potato soup she’d prepared in the afternoon.  
“Alright.” Arthur took a seat and watched her set the table, stir the soup and cut the bread.  
“You need not to be home this early,” she said while ladling the soup in the plates. “You can stay at the Garrison’s and have fun.”  
“I’m coming home not later than 10:30,” Arthur repeated and played with his spoon. “I want you to take a bath after dinner and ... wait for me.”  
“But ...,” she whispered, thinking about the big words she used in her bloody column.  
Refusing her cooperation, denying access. Hah! As if!  
For the last three weeks he’d slept in her, in their, bed. Without touching her, without trying to insist on his rights. Now that she was so close to him every night, she knew more about the nightmares and she never dared to touch him when he was plagued by one.  
“We’re seven weeks married by now. Tonight I’m insisting on my rights, Millie. You need to be with child. Tommy’s already asking, even your father enquired about the ... state of your belly.”  
“Please, Arthur, don’t do this. You ... needn’t do this. I know a lot of women who can’t get pregnant. Nobody has to know, please.”  
“I’m no monk, Millie, and I want you. I’ve been waiting bloody long enough. I promise you will like it.” Arthur said and added: “Enjoy your meal.”  
“I’m not hungry,” she answered and moved her plate to the middle of the desk.  
“Hunger strike is on the blacklist, remember?” He said and winked at her, letting her know that he just teased to cheer her up.  
“You vowed to love, cherish and honour me, Arthur.”  
“And that’s what I’m gonna do tonight.”  
“You’re going to force yourself upon me.”  
He sighed deeply and shook his head: “No, I won’t. But I ask you for a chance, because I’m losing my fucking patience. And, yes, I know you’re a posh wife married to a pretty gormless bloke, but you are _my_ wife, you said these fucking vows and now we’re here, and god knows, I’m trying to make the best of it. But you, wife, you can’t insist on performance without dealing with your part. Do we understand each other, Millie?”  
“Yes.” She looked down on her lap and nodded.  
“Alright. Clean up and take a bath. Relax. You don’t need to fear neither me nor the night.”  
“Not yet ...,” she added lowly and looked up, just to see him nodding. “What if I really don’t like it?”  
He cleared his throat, placed his spoon on the table and looked her in the eyes: “As you know, I wasn’t married before you but I’ve fucked a hundred women. The bigger part of them I didn’t pay to do as I please. They did it because they liked it. You’re gonna like it too.”  
“But what if I ...”  
“Shut up, Millie. Just shut up. Want to make me angry? Keep it up. But be warned: I’m not very gentle when I’m irritable. And this is nothing I would recommend for a first time. You got that?”  
Millicent nodded and kept silent until he finished his meal and said his goodbyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, time for some Arthur smut.

Millicent sat at the edge of the bed, wearing her nightgown and a robe. For the last five minutes she’d stared at Arthur’s lower legs. He’d come in without saying a word and took a seat in the armchair, as every evening. She heard the whiskey bottle clang when he placed it back on the table, the sound dinned in her ears. The house was silent as a grave and she wished to be dead, feeling all alone in the world, helplessly at the mercy of her husband. She flinched as he got up and lit one of the candles on the chest of drawers.  
“Please,” she said, “let us not pretend romance where is none. We fulfill a contract, that’s all.”  
“As you wish,” Arthur shrugged and sat down again, clearing his throat: “Well then. Take off your clothes.”  
She looked up, seeing him sitting in his armchair, a glass of whiskey in his hand, a small smile on his lips. He was fully clothed, he’d only loosened his bow tie.  
“Arthur ...,” she started but he lifted his hand, gesturing her to be quiet.  
“You don’t want romance, Millie, you’re just fulfilling a contract. As far as I know, making a woman pregnant requires not a single word. So, we can do this without talking. No romance, no talking. Just strip, lay back, spread your legs and we’re done in next to no time.”  
Her lower lip quivered and she started crying, not able to hold back the tears.  
“Arthur, please ...,” she sobbed, wiping over her cheeks.  
“Please, what?”  
“Can ... can I ... we ... have romance, please?”  
“Sure,” Arthur answered and got up to light some more candles.  
This time he didn’t sit down again, he stood right in front of her, pulling her up. His embrace was warm and somehow comforting.  
“You’re not alone in this, Millie.” He said and opened the robe, stripped it off her shoulders and threw it on the ground. “Look at me, come on.”  
His pointer finger lifted her chin and she noticed the serious look on his face. She held his gaze while he caressed her shoulders, giving her hold and comfort in one.  
He bowed his head to kiss her, ever so slowly. It didn’t feel unpleasant to have him this near, not when he was calm, well-adjusted and sober. It felt like the first, and until today only, kiss they shared, on their wedding day in church. Exciting, strange, intimate, dangerous and safe at the same time. She opened her mouth obediently when she felt his tongue on her lips. She’d witnessed John and Esme kissing this way and both seemed to like it, so she gave it a try. Once her mind wandered back from John and Esme (and wasn’t it really weird to think about another couple right now? Or was it a kind of ... getaway?), she noticed that she kissed him back, that her body took over while her mind was busy. Her pleasure grew when Arthur grabbed the back of her head with one hand and placed the other one on her bum. The low groan coming out of his throat excited her more than she could have ever imagined. He broke the kiss, took a step back and rubbed over his mouth before opening his waistcoat and his shirt.  
“Strip,” he demanded, his voice even more gravelly and darker than normal. “Take that bloody gown off.”  
Open-mouthed she watched him stripping, without being able to move an inch, and once he stood naked her eyes dropped downwards and sprang upwards again, looking in his face. She noticed the half smirk in the corners of his mouth and closed her eyes for a second, gulping. She flinched as he bent down, grabbing the seam of her nightgown and lifted it.  
“Arms up, Millie,” he said lowly and once again, she did as she was told.  
Her gown joined the robe on the floor, her underpants followed.  
“Look at you, darling, a sight to behold,” he whispered, smiling, leading her carefully backwards, guiding her to lie down. “Like this, aye. I wanted to see you naked and spread out before me for so long, Millie.”  
“You ... you aren’t irritable right now, are you?” She asked while he watched her silently, standing in front of her marital bed, naked, his arms folded.  
He shook his head, licking over his lips, the look on his face reminded her at the lion whose feeding she’d once watched at a fair.  
“It’s ... it’s pretty cold. Can I tuck myself in?”  
“No,” he said and placed his fingers on her right foot, wandering with his fingertips upwards, over her shin to her knee, thigh, groin – which made her whimper and flinch – over her belly to her nipple. Everywhere he touched, her skin shimmered with liquid heat.  
“Fucking beautiful,” he mumbled and crawled over her, spreading her legs in the process, making room for him.  
He held his weight with his left arm, his right hand petting over her collarbone, down on her arm to her hand. Millicent took a deep breath as he lowered his upper body and kissed a trail from her neck to her breast. The silence in the room felt unbearable, the feeling of trembling uncertainty was too much, so strong that the positive feelings Arthur caused were eclipsed.  
“Arthur,” she whispered, just to break the silence.  
“Hm?” He didn’t look up, he kissed and nibbled on the swelling of her breast.  
“When I was very young I ... watched my father in bed with my mother. I heard them talking and she desperately begged him to pull out.”  
“And?” Arthur asked and sucked one of her nipples in his mouth, a contact, a sensation that made her gasp.  
“Oh! What did she mean?”  
“Take a guess, sweetheart ...,” Arthur shot her a grin and sucked harder.  
“I ... she didn’t want to get pregnant?”  
“Aye. Clever girl.”  
Millicent had to close her eyes because of the overwhelming sensations she felt, but she needed to focus on their talk, not only because it ended the silence.  
“Will you ... oh, oh, my god, Arthur ... will you pull out when I beg you?” She asked, her breathing ragged, her hands searching for hold in the sheets.  
“No. Never, unless you give me a good reason. ‘I don’t want to be with child’ isn’t one, just to be clear.”  
“But you said, you’d fulfill my wishes and ...”  
“That again? Really, Millie?” Arthur lifted his head and she saw and felt his anger burning.  
“I’m sorry ... please, don’t be angry.”  
He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. Millicent lifted her hand and reluctantly caressed his cheek.  
“Kiss me and you’re forgiven,” he said and bowed his head, bringing his lips to hers.  
She noticed how much her kiss felt different from his, shy and maybe too soft, but he groaned with pleasure.  
“That’s it. See? That’s your weapon, Millie. Kiss me like this, touch me gently and I’m all yours.”  
“You’re a charmer, but still a liar,” she answered and he smirked, focusing on her breasts again.  
“Tell me,” he said after a few seconds, “have you ever touched yourself for pleasure? Here?”  
Millicent moaned lowly as he cupped her vulva with his flat hand.  
“Once, only once. And I’m sorry.” She whispered and Arthur lifted his head, her nipple leaving his mouth with a soft “plopp”.  
“Why you’re sorry?” He asked and started to rub gentle circles over her labia.  
“It’s forbidden, isn’t it? I ... I asked my mother about it because I didn’t know what ... what happened to me and she got very, very angry. She yelled at me and I got a severe lecture, including 20 blows with my father’s belt.”  
“I see. So, did it feel good? Touching you there?”  
“Yes,” she whispered and closed her eyes because she felt so ashamed.  
“You’re gonna feel this again, and you’re actually allowed to feel it.”  
“Really?” She asked, sounding embarrassingly excited, and he chuckled: “Guess it was very good, very exciting, eh?”  
“Yes,” she confessed and felt her blushing. “Is this why women like it?”  
“It is. Now, here we go,” he whispered, grinning. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good, Millie. Just relax and let me do my work.”  
There hadn’t been a hint of pain, degradation or humiliation so far and she trusted him. Not only because she didn’t have another choice, she wanted to trust him. Being on guard day and night over weeks made her weak and tired. Arthur may be a notorious gangster and a hotheaded ruffian, to her he’d only been gentlemanly and soft. His body promised shelter and safety, his voice was hypnotizing, even when his words were scandalous.  
Her body tensed, her back arched, she panted his name, all things outside their bed forgotten. The feelings flooding her body were so much, too much, she fell, held by him, safe in his arms. Her fingers searched for hold in the sheets, her legs trembled and the words he whispered in her ear were so dirty, so graphic and so good that she was hooked in the wink of an eye.  
“You’re bucking like an unbroken horse, Millie. Want something in your pussy, aye? Feels so empty, needs to be filled ..., but you won’t get my fingers, darling. I want my cock to be the first thing ever shoved up in your pussy.”  
“Arthur!” She panted, “Please, please ...”  
“You like it?”  
“Yes!”  
“Want me to finish you off? Give you what your body craves?” He whispered and sucked on her neck, intensifying the sensations.  
“Yes, please, please!” Millicent moaned and with a few fast flicks of his pointer finger she was sent in her first orgasm ever, and a remarkable scream escaped her lips.  
Arthur lay down on his side and pulled her in his arms, silently, his finger drawing circles on her upper arm.  
“You are very responsive,” he whispered. “Easy to lead. I like it.”  
“Thank you,” she answered, unsure if this were compliments or impudence.  
He kissed her deeply, before rolling over her again: “Now it’s my turn. Give me your hand.”  
Millicent did as she was told and he led her hand to his cock, closing her fingers around it. He showed her how he liked to be touched and she felt a kind of strange eagerness to learn it.  
“So,” he then announced. “Maybe it’s gonna hurt for a second, you know, the blood stain?”  
“Yes,” she nodded and felt her body tensing, “I’m ... I know.”  
He kissed her gently and she kissed back, finding great pleasure in kissing him. But he didn’t move his hips, not an inch. All the kissing didn’t break the tension that captured her body, and she knew he felt it too. The fear was back. But it was mostly the fear of the pain, it must hurt badly when it caused a bleeding. Arthur sighed, broke the kiss and looked up, on the headboard, and she noticed the change in his facial expression.  
“Arthur?” She asked, watching him closely.  
“What the fucking hell is that?” He whispered, furrowing his brows, looking concerned.  
“What?” She wanted to know, turned and tilted her head to look to the headboard. “Where? I can’t ... oh! Arthur!” She gasped as she felt a short tug, followed by the feeling of being incredibly full and stretched.  
“Uh, nothing. That’s it. It’s done, now you’re mine, darling. You fell for the oldest trick in the world, Mrs. Shelby,” he grinned and moved his hips a bit.  
“Not fair,” she whispered and closed her eyes, but he clicked his tongue: “Open your eyes, I want you to look at me ... aye ... that’s good, Millie.”  
Her gaze was locked with his and he moved slowly and steady, one thumb on the area he petted to make her feel good. When he sped up, his thumb moved faster too and she felt this overwhelming sensation building again.  
“I feel your pussy starting to quiver, Millie. You’re getting closer, aye? You’ve got permission to feel it, remember?” Arthur panted and for the first time she could hear his own arousal.  
His thrusts were harder and faster now and she liked it, Jesus, she liked it so much. Arthur lifted her legs, changed the angle and she moaned loudly in the second he drove into her again, hitting another spot providing great pleasure. Over and over, until she fell apart, until she felt muscles she never knew she had trembling, quivering, milking his cock. The feeling rushing through every fibre of her being took her voice, her free will, her dreams, reducing her on just being Arthur’s. Voiceless, will-less, dreamless and somehow brainless, but so good, so unbelievably good.  
“Millie,” he groaned, a sound coming deep out of his chest, “Millie, fuck, yes!”  
He fell forward, pressing himself balls-deep into her and shivered, his whole body shaking. Before he crushed her he stemmed himself up, on his forearms, and placed a kiss on her lips.  
“Thank you, Arthur,” she whispered, kissing him back.  
“Welcome. I’ve never had so much fun fulfilling a contract. You?”  
“No. Never,” she smiled and hid her face on his chest, inhaling his scent.  
“I like seeing you smile, Millie. You should smile more often.”  
“Aye, I know.”  
“You were brave and wonderful,” he whispered and caressed her cheek.  
She nodded, asking herself which price she would have to pay for the pleasure she found in his arms. His words, spoken on the morning after their wedding, were still fresh in her memory: Once you say yes to me, you can’t go back. All or nothing.  
Now she’d said yes.  
What did that mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Let me know! Thanks in advance!


	8. Chapter 8

_ Messages from the seraglio _  
_Can one die on a frightened heart, dear reader? Is there something our mother’s didn’t tell us, a secret every woman has to reveal on her own?_  
_Every forced smile, every affirmation and every suppressed indication of dislike or disapproval affects my heart. After three months of marriage and the lost battle of the woman’s quarter I feel hopeless and despaired. These days, I cry a lot, thankful that Mr. Pasha is busy with his tight schedule, that he doesn’t see my tears. Not that he’s insensible to seeing me cry, not that he’s accusing me of being ungrateful and spoiled – on the contrary._  
_Mr. Pasha hates seeing me cry. He’s worried about me, he wants me to be happy. He offers comfort and tries to quieten me down but I won’t allow neither myself nor him to find consolation in each other’s arms. So I cry when he’s not here, when he leaves the palace, our home._  
_Is being married so bad?, you may think, especially if you’re married to a man you choose._  
_No, it isn’t. And that’s part of the problem. Even I have to admit that there are good times, days of joy. When Mr. Pasha is sober and well-balanced, when the Turks didn’t plague him in the night before he’s a calm and easy partner, able to laugh with me, open to hear my ideas of marriage._  
_But he only hears. He will never implement my ideas in our marriage. In his marriage, his life. He’s old-fashioned, he believes in patriarchy, in marital discipline and in the superiority of men. Might is right._  
_For him, I’m a quite funny, little female with wondrous ideas and exactly one right, one choice and seven duties. These duties are named the following:_  
_Breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, cleaning the house, warming the marital bed, giving birth to as many children one woman can manage._  
_But what is the right, you may ask?_  
_I have the right to live. Nothing more and nothing less._  
_And the choice?_  
_I can be happy with him and everything he gives me. Or not._  
_So, make a choice, Mrs. Pasha._  
_I ask myself a lot, what other women may choose. And what will happen to me if I choose the wrong way. Will I break? Will I turn bitter and evil? Or will I grow stronger, will I learn to stand upright, will I be able to teach him that being a modern man is nothing wrong?_  
_How can I raise my sons to modern men without Mr. Pasha noticing it, without being in great trouble and earning time over his knees? Will I hate myself if I fail? Do I have the strength to go through with it, even when it earns me discipline? Am I this brave?_

_I don’t know. But I’ll let you know._

_Sincerely,_

_Meara Justine_

 

The first letter had been a great success. The woman’s magazine publishing it first, soon gave the column to other magazines and newspapers. Even in London they read Meara Justine and the readers lusted for more. It was like a diary for her, a friend to whom she could unburden herself. She knew it was wrong to tell the women’s world that Arthur was a reactionary arsehole.  
He wasn’t, most of the time. And that was the problem. Deep inside, she felt that she could be happy with him. But it was wrong, so wrong, because he was old-fashioned, he was a gangster and she didn’t marry him by choice.  
But, and she felt shame every time she thought about it, she’d learnt to love the late evenings and the early mornings, when he pulled her closer to him, when he held her, kissed her, loved her. He had been right. She was able to forget about the hard life she led as soon as he started kissing her, as soon as his hands wandered under her nightgown. Since the day he’d first consummated the marriage he did it every day, not even her monthly bleeding had stopped him. He’d just shrugged and mumbled that he didn’t fucking care, that he wasn’t afraid of a little bit of blood. He’d taken her from behind, he’d taught her to ride him, he’d fucked her bent over the dressing table, against the wall and one time, on a Sunday morning, he’d loved her in the bathtub, while all the good people attended mass. She still felt shame thinking of it.  
So, officially she was a devoted wife, devoted enough to make Arthur and Aunt Polly happy, she cared about the house and the meals and her husband. Arthur was very pleased with her progression, praising her on a regular basis. The night before, after spilling his seed, he’d whispered at her ear, his breathing still ragged, his voice husky: “I ... god, Millie ... I guess I could fall in love with you. My good wife, my darling, you do me so good, so fucking good.”  
Millie closed her eyes, thinking of his words, feeling butterflies fluttering through her belly. He could be so gentle, so lovely, so adorable. But she knew that he could also be very strict, brutal and mean and she feared this side of him deep from the heart. She was totally aware of the fact that he’d killed many men, that he still killed if it was unavoidable. He was the man for the dirty work, he killed without batting an eye. He fought to let off steam, he came home with bloody wounds she tended. And yet he was so sweet and caring – as long as she did as she was told. 

“Katie’s coming to Birmingham next week. She asked me to get tickets for the Old Rep. They’re playing Lady Wintermere’s Fan, on weekends at 8:30, and Katie wants to go on Saturday. Would you mind buying us two tickets when you’re around? Or three, if you want to join us,” Millicent asked during lunch and Arthur looked up, squinting his eyes.  
“No,” he answered after a moment of consideration.  
“No?”  
“No. You won’t go. I don’t allow it.”  
For a moment there was complete silence, and Millicent held her breath, thinking about his answer and how to argue against him.  
“Why?”  
“Too dangerous.”  
“A play at the Old Rep is anything but dangerous.”  
“That might be, but going out on Saturday night is.”  
“Then come with us, please, Arthur. I haven’t seen a single play in months and Lady Wintermere is so funny. Please, Arthur, don’t be cruel.”  
“I’m busy on Saturday’s, as you know.”  
“Arthur ...”  
“No. Final answer.”  
Millicent gulped and fought against the tears of frustration. She got up and took the two steps on his side. She caressed his cheek and kissed him on his lips.  
“But I’ve been so good, haven’t I earned myself a little treat? Please, Arthur? We could ask one or two of your men to come with us, you know, one of the guys who were invited to our marriage?” She decided to charm him and took a seat on his lap, before kissing him once more.  
“Trying to woo me, wifey?” He chuckled, placing his hand on her bum. “Go on, do your best. But hurry up, I’ve gotta go.”  
“Arthur, please ...,” she whispered, kissing the tip of his nose.  
“No.”  
He grabbed the back of her head and kissed her deeply, before he whispered: “You want a treat for being so good, aye? You get one, tonight, I promise, me duck.”  
She sighed as he pushed her gently off his lap.  
“Can I make a wish?”  
“For your treat? Or regarding the Old Rep? Then the answer’s no.”  
“Would you please just rethink your decision, Arthur? It would mean a lot to me. Will you, please?”  
“If you accept my final decision, I’m gonna rethink it.”  
“I will accept your final decision, Arthur, I promise,” Millicent grinded out but she knew it would be a “no” and she wouldn’t accept it.  
She’d call Polly and ask her to buy tickets for three, visit the theatre with Katie and Polly and enjoy the evening with lots of sparkling vine, canapés and laughter. 

 

“Look! There’s Arthur,” Polly said, stepping on the stairs in front of the theatre.  
“Arthur?” Millicent asked horrified, grasping Katie’s hand. “What is he doing here?”  
“I asked him to pick us up because walking home is pretty dangerous and I hate cabs,” Polly answered, frowning. “Why? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Millie.”  
“Good evening, ladies,” Arthur said fulsomely friendly, opening the car door.  
“Arthur,” Millicent said meekly, his final answer (No!) clearly in her ears. “You’re here ...”  
“Mrs. Shelby,” he nodded. “Hop in. You’ve got a long night ahead, darling.”  
Katie giggled, misinterpreting his threat as something flippant.  
“Oh, Arthur! You should’ve joined us! It was so funny,” Katie said after Arthur started the car.  
“Aye? Did you like it too, dear? Was it worthwhile?” He asked, giving Millicent a deadly look.  
“Yes. It was wonderful. Thank you for driving us home, Arthur. When did Polly ask you?”  
“Right after you called her. I was listening to your little chat as I was in the same room, incidentally.”  
“Is there a problem we should know of?” Polly asked suspiciously and Millicent shook her head: “No, it’s fine, thank you, Polly. It was a good idea to ask Arthur to pick us up.”  
“It definitely was, aye.” Arthur said grimly and Millicent noticed a big, cold lump in her chest.  
First, he drove Katie to the hotel she stood in before bringing Polly home. She said her goodbyes and a warm thank you and Arthur’s face turned into stone as soon as Polly’s front door was closed. Millicent decided to say nothing, to let him do the talking. But he was silent until they reached their home.  
She walked straight in the kitchen, igniting the stove: “Tea, Arthur?”  
Just as had nothing happened. Maybe the storm would pass when she closed her eyes and played the innocent wife.  
“You lied to me and you were disobedient,” he said, his voice cold and strained.  
“I am,” Millicent said, taking a deep breath, “a grown up, married woman of 22 years. I am not a child anymore. I’m able to take care of myself and I’m able to visit a pretty harmless play without a watchdog.”  
“You lied to me and you were disobedient,” Arthur repeated. “You fucking lied to me and you were disobedient!”  
“I was with Polly. She has a gun in her handbag.”  
He came nearer, invading her personal space, and she gulped.  
“You lied to me and you were disobedient,” he hissed and grabbed the lapels of her jacket. “I should beat the bloody hell outta you, wife. The bloody, fucking hell. If I tell you to stay put, you stay put.”  
“Arthur, I’m ...,” Millicent whispered and caressed his cheek with one hand, the other searched for hold at the table she was pressed against. “See, nothing happened. We just had some fun. Don’t be angry with me, dear. I told you, it was safe and I was right, aye? You were in sorrow, I know, but next time ...”  
“Wanna tell me what to do, Millie? Are you serious?”  
“Arthur, please ... let me ...”  
“Like hell, Millicent. Next time, I catch you lying or being disobedient, you’ve got some discipline coming. Did I make myself clear?” His face was only five inches away, the cold, hard look in his eyes burnt a hole in her soul, her answer came without her thinking about it: “Yes, Arthur. I’m sorry. Please, forgive me, please.”  
“I’m gonna have a drink. You go in the bedroom. Wait for me.” He answered and Millicent fled out of the kitchen, tears burning in her eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

“I’d hoped that you’d stay at home, that you would excuse yourself and let Katie and Pol go alone,” Arthur said, entering the bedroom. “But of course you didn’t.”  
“Even breeding cattle is allowed to walk around on the pasture,” Millicent said lowly, bitterness in her voice. “I’m not.”  
“You are,” Arthur took a seat in the armchair, “no breeding cattle.”  
“I feel like one.”  
He took a sip of whiskey and fell silent. The tension in the room was nearly unbearable and Millicent wished nothing more than that he’d understand her actions, her feelings. It would be so much easier.  
“I’m your husband,” he said after a while. “I am responsible for you. Tommy gave me hell because I left to pick you women up. He said that I don’t have you under control, that you walk all over me.”  
“I may be your wife,” Millicent answered, “but I’m fucking responsible for myself. Not for you, not for Tommy, Katie or Polly.”  
“You are wrong, Millie, and you know it.” Arthur cleared his throat and continued: “Tommy said, if you are soft on rebellion, it will grow.”  
“With due respect, I don’t care what Tommy said, Arthur. This is between you and me, it’s our marriage, and a marriage contains only two people.”  
“And one of these two people said that you should fucking stay at home!” Arthur barked. “But you didn’t!”  
Millicent shook her head and decided that a further discussion would be useless. He, the gangster, had the law on his side. Irony of fate. Arthur got up and came nearer, very close. She had to spread her legs to make room for him and bowed her head under his piercing gaze.  
“Apologize,” Arthur whispered. “Sincere.”  
“I’m sorry for offending you, for giving you trouble. I apologize for disrespecting you.” She said, resting her forehead against his belly.  
He placed his right hand on her neck, with his left hand he caressed her cheek: “See? It’s so easy.”  
Arthur’s voice had gone soft, disarming, he tried to charm, to coax her. Millicent knew she barely had a chance, but she wasn’t ready to give up.  
“But it’s wrong.”  
“What is wrong?”  
“To submit without fighting. To give myself up to you.”  
“You fight against me, you’ll lose. We can skip fighting and live in peace.”  
“I can’t, Arthur, I just can’t. I want you to see me as a free and clever woman. I want to be a soldier for women’s right and I want you to accept that.”  
“A clever soldier is aware of a lost battle or an unwinnable war. See, I was a Sapper, I dug tunnels under the battlefield. The field you’re standing on, the field you’re fighting on, is crossed under the surface with the tunnels men dug. Wherever you fight, you break in, landing in my tunnel, at my feet. Women may crawl at the surface, trying to change something up there, but in the end, it’s futile.” He pulled her up on her feet, opening her blouse, his hand sliding under her chemise, cupping her breast. “Wanna fuck ya, Millie, fuck some sense and submission into ya.” He mumbled at her ear, the following kiss hard and pushing.  
“Arthur ...?” She whispered against his neck while he stripped her naked.  
“Aye?”  
“Please, be gentle ...”  
“I’ll try, but I can’t promise, luv. You pushed my buttons, now deal with it.” 

Afterwards, he pulled her in his arms, his touches gentle again, his fingertips caressing her upper arm. Millicent thought that she wouldn’t be able to walk in the morning, that she had never imagined how rough and forceful his ... movements in bed could be. He’d fucked her so hard that she feared the bed would just break into two halves. He’d fucked her across the whole mattress, every thrust pressed even more lust from her center through her body. Every second torture and bliss in once. She was sated and exhausted, ready to go to sleep, bedded on the chest of a man she should’ve learned to hate. But she couldn’t. The past that haunted him, the everlasting conflicts he dealt with in the present, the perilous future – all that made it impossible to even dislike him. He fought so hard against his demons, his beliefs and his vicious habits to be a good husband to her. Millicent was well on the way to fall in love with him, a fact that brought her straight to the brink of despair as soon as she thought about it.  
“Tell me, Millicent, is a woman able to do this to a man what I did to you?” Arthur asked after a few minutes of amicable silence.  
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head.  
“It’s a question of strength and power, isn’t it?” He asked, placing a kiss on her head.  
“Yes, but ...”  
“No but. There you’ve got your answer, Millicent.”  
“It isn’t this easy, Arthur,” she protested. “It’s a wide and complex field and ...”  
“... and crossed by tunnels. Right. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I want to be sure that you’re safe. And that’s why you have to listen to orders.”  
Millicent closed her eyes and nodded obediently.  
“Are we good, luv?” He whispered, turning her gently around to spoon her.  
“Yes, we are.” Millicent took a deep breath, back-tracing the warm feeling the word ‘luv’ had caused in her body. 

 

_Messages from the seraglio_

_The fight for women’s rights is a battlefield, dear reader. You knew that for sure. That said battlefield is crossed by tunnels, dugged by men, the surface unstable. If you break in you land at the feet of a man, possibly your own husband, looking down at you with mild amusement or maybe anger. But you are where you belong, according to him: At his feet, looking up to him._  
_This is what Mr. Pasha thinks about my and our battle for freedom. Maybe he’s right. Maybe we have to work on a deeper basement, on a stable underground made of stone, all the tunnels filled up with knowledge and understanding. We have to throw light in the dark ages ruling the heads of our beloved men. If we trip, we’re not landing at the feet of our husband. We’re landing at the feet of our fathers, brothers, cousins and brothers in law too. Our work should be all-embracing. It isn’t done with our husband tolerating (and smiling at) our “wondrous” and “silly” ideas. We need to raise daughters and nieces able to vote, to decide, to learn and to lead. And for this, we need an army of men on our sides, positive to women’s rights in every fibre of their being._

_Recently I chose to ignore a direct order and enjoyed an evening of freedom. Unfortunately I got caught and landed, you surely can imagine, directly at his feet. The following argument was only a skirmish and not longer as his regular visits in the woman’s quarter. Quite short, to be exactly._  
_Nonetheless, the taste of freedom hooked me and a few days later I took a French leave again, to take part at the Women’s Club Quarterly Panel Discussion at ‘The Alexandra’ in Birmingham. If you have never joined this particular project you should take it into account – the next discussion is scheduled for July, 25th (similar events will be on April 8th in London, St Martin’s Theatre, West Street, on June 3rd, Midland Hotel in Manchester and on June 11th, Adams Building in Nottingham). Mrs. Eva Liston held a beautiful speech and Mrs. Angela Minatara recited two poems about the equal right to vote._  
_I heard some women talking about my column and I was very pleased to hear some praise. Thank you all for your kind words. Keep fighting, and avoid the tunnels._

_Sincerely,_

_Meara Justine_

 

Millicent waited three days until she found the guts to send the column to the women’s magazine. But Arthur didn’t read these kinds of paper. No one would ever know that she was Meara Justine, a woman with more bravery than Millicent Shelby ever had. At the panel discussion she’d sit in the last row, listening, stunned by all the glorious ideas and all the freedom surrounding her. In the cab back home she’d cried, because of the cage she lived in. It lasted until deep in the night, when Arthur came home, tiptoeing into the bedroom, pulling her on his naked chest, she’d calmed and was able to sleep.  
She hated herself every morning for yearning his touch, for enjoying his attention. It was wrong and she had to stop. No one could fight effectively for both sides. She had to choose one and it broke her heart.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur finds out. Bloody hell.

The Sunday lunch at Polly’s house had been quite wonderful and Millicent enjoyed the time outside her own home, the conversations with Ada and Polly and Esme. They talked women’s business while the men were outside for a cigarette in the sun.  
“I brought the newest issue of Cleopatra,” Ada said, placing the magazine on the table.  
“Is there a new column by Meara?” Esme asked and Ada nodded.  
“Who’s Meara?” Thomas asked, entering the room, followed by the other men.  
“A columnist for a few women’s magazines. Nothing you would enjoy.” Polly answered shrugging.  
“You know her?”  
“No.”  
“She’s writing on feminist themes and about her arranged marriage with an older man, a veteran. The insights in her married life are impressive,” Ada explained and Millicent bit on her lip, not knowing where to look.  
“Mr. Pasha is a lot like Arthur, don’t you think?” Esme asked grinning. “Every time I read the newest column I think: Bloody hell, this girl could be married to Arthur.”  
“Pretty much, aye.” Ada answered and even Polly nodded.  
“Who’s Mr. Pasha?” John asked and took a seat, grabbing the magazine.  
“Her husband.”  
“Like me, eh?” Arthur asked and took the magazine out of John’s hand. “Which page?”  
“Three. Messages from the seraglio. The columns are a great success, printed in various magazines, but no one has a clue who she is, although that is already her fifteenth article. There are a lot of rumors about her identity going around. My friend Christine said, she’s quite sure that Meara Justine is the Countess of Ulster, but I think that’s bullshit. Her husband isn’t of noble heritage, neither is she.” Ada said and helped herself to more tea. “Are you alright, Millie? You’re very pale.”  
“I ... I’m fine, thanks,” Millicent grinded out, her gaze locked on Arthur’s face.  
“Read aloud, Arthur, come on,” Thomas said and he started reading: “ _The fight for women’s rights is a battlefield, dear reader. You knew that for sure. That said battlefield is crossed by tunnels, dugged by men, the surface unstable. If you break in you land at the feet of a man, possibly your own husband, looking down at you with mild amusement or maybe anger. But you are where you belong, according to him: At his feet, looking up to him. This is what Mr. Pasha thinks about my and our battle for freedom. Maybe he’s right._ ”  
Arthur stopped reading and looked up, searching her gaze. He squinted his eyes and Millicent knew that she would be dead by the end of the day. Next Sunday lunch at Polly’s would be on the occasion of her funeral.  
The rest of the article he read for himself, silently, ignoring the protest of his brothers. After he finished reading he looked so very lost for a few moments, so confused and alone, so desperate that it broke her heart. But then the anger started to boil, she could see and feel it, while all the others cracked jokes. John grabbed the magazine and started to read the rest of the column aloud.  
“ _The following argument was only a skirmish and not longer as his regular visits in the woman’s quarter. Quite short, to be exactly_ ,” John read and started to laugh like crazy. “That’s fucking hilarious. A woman complaining about not being fucked thoroughly in a bloody feminist magazine. Holy shit, that bloke is a fucking poor bastard.”  
“And an idiot,” Thomas added, grinning.  
Millicent felt coldness spreading all over her body, the horror creeping slowly in her mind, paralysing her. She should flee, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t able to move, so she just sat there waiting for her punishment. Her world cracked into a thousand pieces. Arthur would never ever be able to forgive her. From now on, her life would be hell. His fury was a thing to behold, she knew it, and being hated by Arthur Shelby was something you didn’t even wish to your worst enemy.  
“That’s not the point, guys, the point is ...,” Ada stopped herself as Arthur got up, murder in his face. “Arthur?”  
With rapid strides he came around the table, grabbed Millicent’s arm and pulled her on her feet.  
“Look at me,” he hissed and reluctantly she did as she was told.  
The room was silent, all eyes were on her and Arthur, she could feel it. Everyone noticed the deadly storm coming and no one lifted a finger to help her. He hauled off and slapped her in the face.  
“Arthur!” Ada called and got up, ready to come over and help Millicent. “What the hell! Stop it!”  
“Sit down, that is none of your fucking business, Ada!” Arthur growled, his gaze still glued to Millicent’s face.  
She lifted a hand to her cheek and took a deep, shaking breath, felt the tears running over her face. She heard the others murmuring, but she was all alone with him. No one could stop him. She went way too far and now she had to deal with the consequences. Arthur gripped her throat with his left, leading her a few steps backwards, pressing her against the door.  
“Arthur!”  
“Arthur, what the fuck! Let her go!”  
“Are you fucking crazy, woman?” Arthur hissed under his breath and she decided that any answer she could give was a wrong one.  
So, she did nothing except for fighting for air, fighting against the panic.  
“Did you know,” Arthur shouted so loud that every syllable rang in Millicent’s ears. “Did you know that Millicent enjoys being fucked from behind? That she screams so lusty when I let her cum that I have to cover her mouth to keep the neighbours from calling the coppers? That she’d never complained about my stamina? Eh, Millie? Did I ever give you a reason to complain?”  
She sobbed and Arthur went on: “Sadly, she’s an abysmal cocksucker, but maybe she’s gonna learn how to please a man while working at a whorehouse.” He took a deep breath, the grip on her throat became so strong that she choked. “So, how does that feel, Millie? Letting everyone know what happens when we’re alone, eh?”  
“Arthur ...,” she grinded out, coughing, “I ...”  
“You know what a whore does, right? She exists only for men, a piece of breathing flesh, made to satisfy an army of cocks a day. Guess you will like that. I’m looking forward to read your next few columns, sweetheart.”  
“Wait, what?” Thomas said, came closer and pulled his brother’s hand from Millicent’s throat. “She’s the bloody columnist?”  
“Aye. And this marriage is ended by now. You hear me, you stupid bitch?” Arthur hissed, taking a step back.  
He pushed Millicent aside and strode out, slamming every door he passed. For a few seconds the room was silent, except for Millicent’s coughing, then John cleared his throat: “So, is it true? You are ...,” he looked down on the table, on the magazine, searching for the name. “Meara Justine?”  
Millicent nodded and closed her eyes.  
“Arthur’s right,” Polly stated matter-of-factly. “You are a stupid bitch.”  
“Polly!” Esme said, “She’s Meara Justine!”  
“Aye, I got that, Esme. Doesn’t change my opinion. Arthur struggled to be a good husband for her, he turned down his marital rights, he went easy on her. In return, she hadn’t anything better to do than to embarrass him nationwide in a bloody magazine. I’m surprised he didn’t snap her neck right on the table.” Polly lit a cigarette and took a deep pull. “I hope they paid at least a fortune for those fucking columns, Millie, because if not you can start to work as a whore not later than next week.”  
“It was anonymously. I didn’t get a penny.” She whispered and looked to Thomas, whose facial expression was unreadable.  
“Can you go back to your family?” Esme asked and petted over Millicent’s shoulder.  
“No. My father will kill me or offer Arthur to do it. As a compensation for my ... behavior.” Millicent got up and took a look around.  
They were all shocked and angry, and it was her fault.  
“So, the whorehouse it is,” Polly stated and shook her head.  
“No.” Thomas said. “You’re gonna stay in the hideout, I’m gonna talk to Arthur. In a few days he'll be simmered down again, you can have a talk, apologize and everything’s alright. No one outside this room will ever know who Meara Justine is. You keep your mouth shut, no word to anyone.”  
“Forget it, Tommy. Didn’t you read the article? He’ll never forgive that. He’s gonna kill her.” John shook his head and folded his arms.  
“Millie will be the perfect wife for him. The wife he dreamt of. If she isn’t able to provide this, he can still put a bullet in her head. It’s worth a try. Or do you prefer the whorehouse, Millie?”  
“No,” she whispered, already knowing where she would celebrate her first wedding anniversary: Either on the churchyard, six feet under, or at a whorehouse.  
Arthur would never take her back. And maybe, just maybe this was a good thing. But it felt more like the biggest mistake she’d ever made.  
“I just wanted to ... follow my dreams.” Millicent whispered, hiding her face in her hands. “And now I’m stuck in a nightmare.”  
“And that’s your very own fault, kid,” Polly answered ruthless. “You very own fault.”


	11. Chapter 11

Six weeks later Millicent woke up and felt that the shock, the numbness and the rigour were finally gone. Still, she lived in Dumack Alley Number 17, and had found a job at a tobacco shop in Portsmouth Lane, assuring her an income. Her father was furious and tried to talk to Arthur, just as Thomas did. But Arthur was stubborn and not willing to give in. But her fear of an unknown future, of Arthur’s revenge was gone. She had already looked for a room to rent so she could move out of Thomas’ hideout and break with the Shelby’s for good. In a few months, she planned to beg Arthur for a divorce, if he hadn’t requested it by then. Maybe she could move to London, start a new life there, without her father and the Shelby family in her back. That had been the plan. Until now. Until this Sunday morning when she woke up and sensed that she wanted something different. Not London, no break-up with the Shelby’s, no job at the tobacco shop.  
The day before, Ada had visited her, reporting that Arthur seemed to be broken, that he drank every day until blackout, but didn’t seem to seek revenge. He was busy destroying himself and it hurt to watch, Ada had told her.  
“Bugger!” She whispered and turned around, now facing the bedside Arthur had slept on in their wedding night.  
The yearning for him just won’t go away. He had planted a little seed in her, with this first, gentle kiss in front of the altar, watered it with the kisses on her neck in that cold January night and fertilized it to full bloom with consummating the marriage. Every time he’d kissed her, touched her, made love to her, she’d felt alive, womanly, desirable and beautiful. Even when his touches weren’t gentle and careful anymore, when he was drunk and eager, fast and demanding she’d felt so good.  
“If you’re honest you have to admit that you enjoyed nearly every minute in his company, you stupid goose,” Millie whispered in her pillow.  
Yes, he was difficult, he was special. He was challenging, but he was worth a fight. Still, there remained the other problem, the thing with fighting on two fronts.  
“He will never allow you to follow your dreams, Millie. Think of what happened when he found out: A slap in the face, dirty words and a kick-out,” she said and shook her head.  
However... she knew she wasn’t ready with Arthur Shelby. 

It was after sunset, after a long day of tormenting herself, when she made a decision. Millicent chose a modest outfit, one that made her look like a very decent wife and dressed her hair with care. She walked to The Garrison’s and entered the crowded place with a smile on her lips, one that froze in the second she noticed him.  
Arthur sat on a chair in the middle of the room, and had a giggling woman on his lap, a cigar in his hand and a drink on the table. This damn minx lapped on his neck like an overeager pet dog, but Millicent could see on his face that he didn’t like her efforts, that he was irritated and unhappy. In the second their gazes met, she looked to the side, pretending not to see him. She took a seat at the bar, ordered a cup of tea and lit a cigarette.  
“Hello,” a male voice said in her back. “I’m Andrew. May I pay your drink?”  
Millicent turned around and gave him a smile: “Nice to meet you, Andrew. I’m Millie. Please, take a seat.”  
She pointed to the barstool on her right and took a long look on his features. He was young, not older than 25, she guessed, blonde short hair, a cap on his head. He didn’t wear a suit, just a shirt and brown pants. His nose looked like it had been recently broken, with a few scabs on the bridge. He also had a bruise on his jaw and his cheekbone. But nonetheless he was really good looking, his figure well-built, brawnier than Arthur.  
“Whatcha doin’ here?” Andrew asked. “Looking for some company for the night?”  
“She’s looking for me,” Arthur’s voice said. “Fuck off, Andrew. Keep your greedy fingers off my wife.”  
“Oh, you are _the _Millie. I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Andrew mumbled and cleared his seat for Arthur. “No harm meant, aye?”__  
“Fuck off,” Arthur repeated and took a seat, giving her a prompting look. “So?”  
She looked him over and decided that he wasn’t too drunk: “How are you?”  
“Fine. What do you want? Money?”  
“No. I just wanted to see you, talk to you. I ... still owe you an apology.”  
“You do.” He confirmed, giving her a short nod, and picked the cigarette out of her fingers.  
She hadn’t taken a pull so far, and Arthur finished the cigarette with two deep pulls.  
“You shouldn’t smoke,” he stated, snagging the ashtray.  
“You shouldn’t drink as much as you do.”  
“I do whatever pleases me, sweetheart,” he growled. “Ruthless, just as you.”  
“I’m sorry, really sorry. I didn’t want to ... embarrass you.”  
Arthur gave her long look, a mixture between hate and sadness, before he stood up: “Go home. Write your fucking columns. The tea’s on me.”  
Millicent grabbed his hand and stood up too: “Arthur, wait. Please. Can we talk, please? Alone and in private? I want to explain myself like I should have done in our first week. But I was ... scared and ...”  
“And that’s why you told whole fucking Britain including the colonies that your husband is an old-fogyish arsehole and a lousy lover? That sounds comprehensible.”  
“This isn’t true, Arthur, and you know this. Did you read all my columns?”  
“Yes.”  
“And?”  
“First: I have never been in a seraglio. Second: You hate me and the world I live in.”  
“I don’t hate you, Arthur,” Millicent answered, shaking her head. “Quite the contrary.”  
He stood still for a few moments, thinking, looking on the floor.  
“Alright. Let’s go.”  
Arthur took her hand in his and led her out of the Garrison’s, and for a short moment she asked herself, if this had been a good idea. She’d seen the gun in the holster as he stood up. But he didn’t seem angry or very hateful, so ... maybe he would just find a quiet place to talk to her. Not to put a bullet in her head. 

____

They walked silently for a few minutes, then she knew where they’d go: Their home. She took a deep breath and gave him a smile as he watched her questioningly: “Home?”  
“Aye.” A short nod and his eyes were focused on the pavement again.  
Arthur walked fast, with rapid strides, so she was a bit out of breath when they reached the front door. He held the door for her and she walked straight to the kitchen and turned on the lights. The place was a mess and she sensed that the rest of the house was in similar condition. Arthur wasn’t extremely neat, not even on very good days.  
“Tea?” She asked, filling the kettle with water.  
“Talk.”  
“Arthur ...”  
“What?” He shrugged and took a seat at the table, grabbed the outspread newspaper and folded it.  
He didn’t sound irritated or snarky, he sounded sad and desperate.  
“Nothing, it’s alright.” She answered and placed two cups on the table.  
While she waited for the water on the stove to cook she started to clean the kitchen and do the dishes. Arthur watched her in silence, his face unreadable. The tension grew and she couldn’t define what kind of tension she felt. Anger? Yearning? 

“I missed you,” she said lowly and poured tea into his cup. “I woke up this morning and I knew what felt so wrong in the last few weeks. It was your absence. I needed six weeks to ... realize that I enjoyed your company, that our marriage was ...” She stopped, searching for words. Millicent looked up, saw his stony-faced expression and felt the tears starting to burn in her eyes. “Our marriage was ... a good thing. Maybe the best thing that ever happened to me. You were nothing but good to me, you were sweet and caring and treated me with respect and I ... I was ungrateful and stupid and spoiled and maddening and selfish. I’m sorry I hurt you. I understand that you ... don’t want to see me anymore, but I need your pardon to go on. I don’t want it to end like ... it ended. And to be honest, I guess I don’t want to end it at all.”  
“I am ...,” Arthur answered, “a stubborn, old-fashioned, conservative, simple man. I hold my views. I’m merciless, I never forgive or forget an insult.”  
“Alright,” Millicent whispered and turned around so he couldn’t see her tears. “I see. I’m sorry I’ve bothered you with my ... childish plea for forgiveness. I ... I finish cleaning and then ... I’ll go and you won’t see me again.”  
She walked to the sink and put the clean dishes into the cupboards, until she felt him in her back. He placed his hands on her shoulders and whispered at her ear: “Are you in love with me, Millie?”  
She didn’t know if this was part of a kind of revenge, if he would deride or humiliate her, but she decided that the truth was the only acceptable answer: “Yes. I am.”  
“Come,” he said, taking her hand in his and led her to the first floor, to the room with the marital bed.  
She watched him lighting some candles, standing still where he had left her. He turned around, locked his gaze with hers and said: “I’ve read the columns, I’ve talked to Ada. You’ve got a strong solicitor in her, you know? I missed you too and I thought about what a simple, stubborn, conservative and merciless man like me could change to ... make a modern libertine like you stay with him.”  
“It’s the simple things, right? The small things that make a difference.”  
“Ada told me that too. So ...,” he grabbed something that was placed on the chest of drawers, “here’s the key to the bedroom. And here ...,” he pulled a key out of his pocket, “is a key to the front door. Come and go as you like. As long as you come back, I’m ... I’m good with it.”  
“I ... I don’t know what to say, Arthur. Thank you.” She smiled, feeling relief and hope taking over, but she knew that two keys weren’t the final solution. “We need to talk more. About rules and ... everything, aye?”  
“Aye. But now ...”  
Arthur came nearer and the following kiss was so gentle, so sweet that she nearly started to cry from all the love she felt. He stripped her bare, slowly but noticeably impatient and got rid of his own clothes.  
“Millie,” he whispered and led her back to the bed, laid her down and crawled over her. “I can’t be gentle, not now. I ... just can’t.”  
“I know. And I understand.”  
“I dreamt of fucking your brains out since ... since the moment I left Polly’s house. I wanted ... to punish you, to kill you but even more I wanted to have you back in my life.”  
“Then take me, Arthur. Take me, right now and back in your life.”  
“You sure you want this?” He whispered, his hand sliding between her legs. “You ready for me?”  
“Oh ...,” she moaned and closed her eyes, her hips bucking against his hand. “Yes, yes!”  
“Will you work as a journalist, a columnist?” He asked, entering her slowly.  
“No. I’m gonna find something else. A job we’re both good with.” She whispered, enjoying the sensation of his skin on hers, his weight, his breath at her ear, his girth stretching her in the most delicious way. “I wanna participate on the marches, the meetings, I wanna spread flyers. But I won’t write a column again. Meara Justine is gone for good. I promise.”  
“Aye. Gonna fuck you, sweet Millie,” Arthur whispered, “gonna fuck you sore. You ready?”  
“I am. Use me, please.” She pulled his head down and kissed him with all the desire she felt.  
“Want me to pull out?” He asked after breaking the kiss, his voice raspy, a little smile on his lips.  
Millie laughed, relieved and happy, the reactions of her body eliciting a small moan of Arthur.  
“Yes, please.”  
“Then I’m gonna cum on your tits, sweetheart.”  
“Whatever pleases you, Arthur.” She pulled him down for a kiss and he started moving.  
Finally. And Millicent felt happy for the first time in months.


	12. Chapter 12

Nose to nose, legs tangled together, one hand on her bum, all warm and cozy. His facial expression gone soft, his body relaxed. Their company felt peaceful. There were only them, everything outside the house not longer important. She took a deep breath, felt the dried semen on her chest crumble. She’d need a shower. But not now. Tomorrow.  
Arthur’s fingertips drew circles on her bum, slowly, lost in thought, maybe not meant to arouse her, but he did. She made a satisfied sound, nearly a purr and the corners of his mouth lifted.  
“You’ve got twenty-five minutes.” He said and closed his eyes.  
“For what? What will happen in twenty-five minutes?”  
“Gonna fuck you again.”  
“Why do we have to wait so long?” She whispered. “I’m ready.”  
“But I’m not. My cock isn’t hard, Millie. Give me a few minutes, greedy girl. ‘M not 20 anymore.”  
She sighed and kissed him, caressed his cheek, before drifting back into this sated doze she loved so much.  
“Why do you want equality?” Arthur asked after a few more minutes.  
“Why?”  
“Aye. I don’t get it. You could be here all day, while I work really hard to bring home the bacon.”  
“I’m not sitting on the chaise longue all day, reading books and drinking tea. I work hard too.”  
“But you work in your own tempo, you’re free to decide what to do next. And I’m not very exacting or demanding, am I?”  
Millicent shook her head. He wasn’t picky and he didn’t say a single word when anything wasn’t perfectly done.  
“So, why?”  
“Women are a valuable part of our society. We should have the right to vote, to decide, to work.”  
“You have the right to vote once you’re turning 30 and own some property.”  
“But you had the right to vote once you turned 21, regardless of your wealth. We too live in this country and we should have the right to participate in all the important discussions regarding our future.”  
“Our future are the children, Millie. That’s why we’re here, not only you and me, for the Shelby’s and the Coates family, that’s why everyone lives.”  
“Arthur ...”  
“I’m here, in this bed, while my father fucked my mother on a day her body was ready to conceive.” He grinned and went on: “The rain poured against the windows and your mother shivered because the bedroom was pretty cold. James said something like ‘come closer, darling, let me warm you’ and just one hour later your mother fell asleep, with little Millicent in her belly.”  
“That’s awful. I don’t wanna think about it.” Millicent made a face and Arthur chuckled. “But I do hope that in a few years women are allowed to choose how many children they want. This,” she placed her hand on her belly, “is my belly. Not yours, not my father’s, not Tommy’s. It’s on me to decide whether I want to be with child or not.”  
“How many children do you want?” Arthur asked, lifting his brows.  
Millicent shook her head: “I don’t know.”  
“How will you prevent pregnancies? Absence? Will you spread flyers about the advantage of a fuck in the ass over a fuck in the pussy? How to suck your husband’s cock so good he never wants to use your pussy again?”  
“You’re bawdy and nasty, Arthur! I could never ... I can’t even think about it. I would be so embarrassed about it ... and it’s forbidden. It’s like sodomy. You’re going to hell, if you’re doing it.”  
“I’m going to hell either way, darling,” Arthur shrugged and adjusted the pillow under his head.  
For a minute the room was silent and she asked herself where she would go and if she would miss Arthur.  
“What about ... condoms?” She asked after thinking of a discussion at the women’s club a few days ago.  
The speaker, Mrs. Evangeline Hurst, didn’t like them, because the use was “men-controlled”. Millicent wasn’t sure about the handling in general, so she’d decided to ask Arthur.  
“We got them for free in the war. They didn’t want pregnant whores and soldiers with clap. But condoms are expensive. If you tell a worker at the docks with five children he should invest the money for groceries in condoms, he will tell you that you’re insane. If you have to choose between bread and condoms, you choose bread, aye?”  
“Aye. But it would be better for him and his family not to father a sixth child. So, can we ... use them?” Millicent asked and Arthur made a face.  
“I’d rather fuck your ass than to use condoms, darling. I don’t like them very much.”  
“Arthur, sodomy is a sin.”  
“So is conception avoidance and lust. Lust is one of the seven deadly sins, as you know for sure. I’m not able to father a child without feeling lust. You are able to conceive without me giving you pleasure. So, no orgasms for you anymore?”  
“No, I ...”  
“You’re cherry-picking, you realise that, do you?”  
“It’s ... oh, bloody hell! I guess I ... I need a bit more experience to ... discuss these themes with you,” Millicent whispered, thinking about the hundreds of women Arthur fucked in the last fifteen years.  
He grinned and patted her bum, before he asked: “So, equality. What about a war?”  
“A war?”  
“If there’s another war, will you sit by my side in a muddy trench? “  
“There’s no war coming. It’s peace.”  
“Answer my question,” Arthur insisted. “Will you sit by my side in a fucking trench, watching men and women die, killing men and women? Living in fear and horror and blood? Walking through streams of blood, urine and shit, crawl over dead bodies? Do you really want to know what it feels like to spear an enemy with a fucking trench knife? Do you really want to know how it feels to hold a friend in your arms when he drowns in his blood, holding his own guts in his hands?”  
“No,” Millicent whispered, “I wouldn’t want this. Nobody can want this.”  
“So, if it comes to fighting, to killing, you don’t need equality anymore, right? Then it’s the job of men to save your ass at home. So, all you want is cherry-picking? The sunny side only? All the rights without the duties?”  
“I, as a woman, have only duties, and not one single right, Arthur, except the right to live. You aren’t allowed to kill me, if you’d follow the law. Apart from that I’m your property, right? You can do as you please, I’m not. Do you really think that’s fair? And if there’s war, someone has to stay behind, and raise all the children men fathered in rainy, cold nights.”  
“Then it’s alright and good to stay at home and care for our children?” Arthur asked, lifting his brows.  
“You wouldn’t allow me to participate in a war. Even if I wanted to.”  
“Aye,” he grinned. “And this is possibly the only order you’d follow without struggling, right?”  
“Maybe,” Millicent smiled and stole a kiss from him.  
“And I still don’t get why you want to change everything.”  
“Because I want a voice too.”  
“You have one. And it’s pretty loud when I ... seduce you to sin.”  
“Arthur, please!”  
“You say that very often then, right.” Arthur chuckled and pulled her closer, kissed her deeply.  
“Arthur!” Millicent gasped on his lips as his fingers petted over her anus, very gently and without pressure.  
“Relax and feel. Stop thinking, darling. Just feel.”  
“No, please ...,” she pleaded and Arthur sighed, kissed her once more and put his hand away.  
“You got me wrapped around your little finger, Millie. I’m the one without a voice here ...”  
“That’s not true. It’s the other way round. I’m here although you’re standing for all the things I consider as old-fashioned. Do you ... have an idea how we can make this work? Outside the bedroom?”  
Arthur cleared his throat and furrowed his brows: “Outside this house, you fight your battles, I fight mine. You do this without embarrassing me, which means: Our marriage is a topic you will never talk or write about. Inside this house and in front of our families you are the devoted wife every man dreams of.”  
“What about children?”  
“At least two. After the second one it’s up to you to decide if you want another. You good with that?”  
Millicent thought about the pros and contras, about every possible scenario regarding this deal, about trust and love.  
“Are you in love with me, Arthur?”  
“Yes,” he answered simply and kissed her forehead.  
“You want my very best, aye?”  
“Aye.”  
“Then I’ll give it a try,” Millicent said and smiled. “So, I’m living here again, right?”  
“Yes. Tomorrow we’ll get your things in Dumack Alley.”  
“Thank you. How many minutes left?”  
“Dunno, greedy girl. How about you wrap your little hand around my cock and see what happens?”  
“Can I ...,” Millicent cleared her throat, suddenly a bit afraid of herself, “use my mouth?”  
“You want to suck me off, Millie? Really?”  
“I want to ... try. Can you teach me?” Regardless of what he’d said weeks ago, she had never even tried it. But now seemed to be a good moment to start.  
“Most likely, sweetheart,” he grinned and turned on his back. “I’ll guide you.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Delicious,” Millicent’s father said and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You’re a little cooking genius, just as your mother.”  
“Thank you, dad,” she answered and gave him a smile.   
“So,” he went on and looked to Arthur. “Six months married, aye?”  
“Aye.”   
“Did she try to ... leave ... since you took her back?” James asked casually, but Millicent noticed that he watched Arthur closely.   
“No.”  
“I’m glad to hear this, Arthur. So, how much time since your last ... menses, Millie?” James Coates asked with lifted eyebrows, and helped himself to more potatoes.   
“Dad!” Millicent gasped, and even her mother looked shocked, but didn’t dare to say something.   
“Just a simple question, and there’s no need to play the lady. I gave you Arthur for a reason, you didn’t marry him out of love, if I remember correctly. Would you mind answering my question, dear?”  
“I do mind, yes. I won’t answer.” Millicent said, without trying to hide the anger in her voice.   
“Arthur?” James Coates said. “Does she give you trouble? Especially regarding her duties?”  
Millicent stared on her plate, feeling like a piece of property, like a breeding cattle. She wanted to cry, out of anger and frustration but she wouldn’t allow her father to see her tears. Arthur didn’t answer immediately, he placed his fork on the table and took her hand in his.   
“If she gives you trouble or defies you, I recommend the belt.” James advised with a small, maleficent smile.  
Arthur cleared his throat and Millicent saw, in the corner of her eyes, murder in his face. He didn’t like these questions, too, and he hated being patronized.   
“With due respect, James, but this is none of your business. Millie is my responsibility, my wife, and our marital life concerns only Millie and me. I do not discuss the details of our marriage with anybody. Neither does she.”   
Not anymore, Millicent thought, thinking about the column. Thankfully her father didn’t know about her short, but successful writing career. They’d only told him that Millicent had thrown a tantrum, insulted Arthur and left.  
“I need an heir, just as the Shelby family does. My eldest daughter decided to leave the family and lives with another woman in bloody Berlin. She refuses stubbornly to marry a man and have children. She’s in love with this woman, she tells me over and over. Fucking bullshit!” James took a deep breath to calm himself down, before he went on: “The second eldest is widowed, without any children and her body seems to be too weak to deliver a child. The youngest one had that terrible accident as a child and isn’t able to have any children at all. So it’s on Millie to give us what the family needs and I’m losing my fucking patience right now! Even if Elizabeth failed in giving me a few strong sons, she gave birth to our first child a month previous to our first wedding anniversary!”   
“Maybe Katie could run your business once you’re retiring,” Millicent suggested, although she knew she was skating on very thin ice.  
“Women are not able to run a business. You’re talking perfect nonsense,” James barked and Arthur shook his head: “They are able. While we were in the war, Aunt Polly ran our business and raised our little brother. Both, she handled very well.”  
“Maybe there are one or two women clever enough. But Katie isn’t. She needs to marry again and try to conceive a child. I need her if you two fail on such a simple task like producing an heir.” James Coates straightened his tie, then his fist slammed on the table, making all the plates jump. “So, answer, Millicent, or I’m gonna deliver the discipline your husband doesn’t seem to be capable of! How much time since your last menses? Do you fulfill your duties or not?”  
“James,” her mother whispered, “think of your heart.”  
Millicent looked to Arthur because he nearly squashed her hand, his anger so clearly visible that she would be scared to death on her father’s stead.   
“I’m gonna answer these questions. This time. We will never talk about this topic again. Do I make myself clear?” Arthur growled.   
“We’ll see,” James answered snarky. “So?”  
“Two weeks ago. Millie fulfills her duties to my utter satisfaction.” Arthur said in a tight voice.  
“How often?”  
“What?”  
“How often does she fulfill her duties? Once a month is more a game of luck than a plan. You know what I mean, right?” James shrugged and cleared his plate.   
Arthur closed his eyes for a second: “Every night.”  
“So, my little one is a good girl, aye?” James grinned and Millicent thought about throwing up, right there on the table. “Maybe the problem’s on you? You shouldn’t drink. No snow or opium until ... our efforts were a success.”  
Arthur let go of her hand and took a deep breath: “Out.”   
“Beg your pardon?” James asked, raising his eyebrows.   
“Lunch is hereby over. Get out.”   
She noticed the change, the felt the monster crawling at the surface. He was so close to snap and kill her father, that she could nearly hear the gunshot, nearly see the hole in the bridge of her father’s nose, just like in Uncle Alban’s face on her damn wedding day.   
“Arthur!” Millicent whispered. “No, please ...”  
“James embarrasses you. He affronts me. In my own fucking house. I’m not going to tolerate this anymore. I’m sorry, Elizabeth, it’s not your fault.”  
Millicent’s mother nodded, but kept her head bowed. James stood up, straightening his back.   
“You throw us out?” He asked, his face blank.   
“Aye.”  
“That’s good, son. Shows me you’re able to stand up for your rights. Good boy!” James chuckled and reached out for his wife: “Thank you for the wonderful lunch and your invitation. Next Sunday, same time, at our home.”  
“Was this an offer?” Arthur asked and James shook his head: “No. A fact.”  
“We won’t come.”   
“Oh, come on, Arthur! I’m sure we’ll get along great!”   
“No.” The look on his face was scaring and Millicent prayed that his anger would spare her. “I would like to have a word in private, James.”  
“Alright, son.”  
Arthur nodded and stood up: “Follow me.”  
“Arthur ...!” Millicent hissed. “Don’t, please ...”  
“It’s alright, Millie. We just ... need to talk,” Arthur answered and guided her father out of the dining room.   
The door closed and her mother cleared her throat, lifting her head: “How are you, Millie?”  
“I’m fine, mum, thanks.”  
“Your father is ...,” she started, but Millie lifted her hand: “I know him well enough, there’s no need for you excusing him.”  
Elizabeth nodded and said reluctantly: “You know, there must be love to ... conceive a child.”  
“That’s not true, mum, and you know this. A thousand whores a year conceive without being in love with their suitors. You conceived at least seven times without loving your husband. You fear him, as everyone fears him, and nonetheless you gave birth to seven children. Maybe it’s more bearable when there’s love, but love isn’t required to be with child.”  
“Does he treat you well? Do you fear him?” Elizabeth whispered and looked to the door, to make sure to quit the conservation as soon as she heard footsteps.   
“He treats me very well. I don’t fear him.” Not anymore, not since she gave up fighting in her home. “Maybe you should leave daddy. I could ask Arthur for money for a passage to Hamburg and a ticket to Berlin. You could live with Anna and Franziska.”  
“Your father will come after me and kill me, if I ever leave him. And when he’s in Berlin already, he will take the chance to kill Anna too. He’ll never forgive her escape. You know that, Millie.” The voice of her mother went even lower and she leant over the table to be heard. “At that time he made the deal with the Shelby’s, regarding your marriage, I’d got reservations. I’d heard all the rumours about Arthur Shelby and I ... feared for my little Millie. But then, after a few weeks, I thought that it would need a man like Arthur Shelby to ... to keep you safe from your father. He told me, if you ever run away from your husband again, he’s gonna kill you. He needs the money the Shelby’s paid for you. Be careful, sweetheart, and do whatever you can to make him love you. You’re lost without him.”  
Millicent returned the little, sad smile her mother gave her and nodded as her mother put a finger on her lips because she heard the footsteps. Millicent stood still at her place until her father and Arthur entered the room.   
“Elizabeth?” James said prompting and her mother stood up, mumbling thanks for the lunch. “Have a good day.”  
Arthur nodded and accompanied her parents to the front door.   
“I ... don’t know what to say,” Millicent said and fumbled nervously with her skirt when he came back. “I’m ... I guess he’s having a very bad day and ...”  
“Your father’s an arsehole, Millie. I know him for years. It’s not your fault. I talked to him and I guess I made myself clear. He won’t ask again.”  
The room fell silent and she started to clean the table, while Arthur took a seat and lit a cigarette.   
“He was right, by the way.” Arthur said calmly after smoking half of the cigarette and Millicent froze: “Right with what?”  
“The lunch was delicious. Thank you, darling.”  
“Oh,” Millicent took a deep, relieved breath and gave him a smile: “Thank you.”   
“You good?”  
“Aye. Arthur?”  
“Mhm?”  
“I ... you bought condoms, right? I found a box in one of your pants when I did the laundry.”  
“Oh, yeah, I did. Where did you ... store them?” Arthur asked and took a last pull of the cigarette.   
“In your bedside table. You said ... you don’t like using condoms. So ...?”  
“You want to know why I bought them?”  
Millicent nodded, watching him closely.   
“Condoms are not perfectly safe, but ... pulling out is even more risky. And we agreed on ... enjoying each other a little bit longer before starting a family, right? Or did you change your mind?”  
“Daddy will be furious if he ever finds out,” Millicent said thoughtfully, but then she smiled: “No, I didn’t change my mind, Arthur. Thank you for ... caring.”  
“I’m putty in your hands, Millie.”   
“As I’m in yours. Do you want your dessert?”  
“Is this a flippant offer or do we speak about milk pudding or some cake?” Arthur grinned and pulled her on his lap.   
“We speak about cake. I’m not one for flippant offers.”   
“But I am. Flippant offer first, cake afterwards, when we’re hungry again.”   
Arthur stood up and carried her to bedroom, which made her laugh. He threw her on the bed and crawled over her, hunger and amusement in his eyes. For a moment she thought about her mother and the arranged marriage she lived in, one without laughter and enjoying each other. Then Arthur kissed her and she concentrated on the kiss.   
“Arthur?” She asked while he opened her blouse and his shirt at the same time.   
“Mhm?”   
“I need money.”  
“Money? How much and for what?”  
“For a journey to Berlin. For my mother.”  
Arthur stopped in the motion, giving her a questioning look.   
“Your father will kill your mother, your sister, you and me if we help your mother to escape.”   
Millicent nodded, knowing he was right. She was already naked when she spoke again: “Why did he give me to you, Arthur?”  
“Can’t you guess, darling?”  
“Because of business and ... because he thought you’d be like him. Cruel and strict and merciless, a brute, keeping his daughter in line. Right?”  
“Right.”  
“But he was wrong, was he?”  
“No. Basically he’s right. But we never had love on the bill. I never thought I would be putty in your hands, from the second I laid eyes on you.”  
“I’m glad you are putty in my hands, Arthur,” she smiled and pulled him down for a kiss.   
“Me too.” He answered. “Feels so good.”


	14. Chapter 14

“You good?” Arthur asked after finishing his dinner. “You didn’t eat very much.”  
“Are you deaf?” Millicent asked, drawing circles around the potatoes with her fork on the plate.  
“Guess not. Did you talk to me and I didn’t pay attention?”  
“No. Arthur, don’t you hear Isobel crying?” Millicent asked, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder, to their neighbour’s house.  
“Of course I hear her. She’s pretty loud and George is pretty angry with her.”  
“How can you eat while a woman is getting thrashed soundly next door?” Millicent asked and shook her head.  
“She’s not getting thrashed, Millie. George disciplines her. She did something wrong.”  
“What could a woman do wrong to deserve such a beating? Would you mind ... going over and making sure that everything’s alright with her?”  
“Why should I? She’s her husband’s responsibility. George is well aware of what he’s doing. She allowed Lucas Sanders to fuck her thoroughly and now she’s getting disciplined thoroughly. So, where’s the problem, darling?”  
“Isobel has an affair? With Lucas Sanders?”Millicent whispered taken aback and Arthur nodded.  
“Yes. George caught them red-handed. He asked for a few men at The Garrison’s, helping him to teach Sanders a lesson. Guess he’s gonna lose a ball or two during this lesson. If he’s a clever boy, he’s already in Portsmouth, booking a passage to Brazil or America.”  
Arthur chuckled and lit a cigarette.  
“I didn’t know that ...,” Millicent stated and cleared her throat. “Anyway, this isn’t a reason to beat her.”  
“It isn’t?” Arthur asked and lifted his brows. “She fucked another man. The only thing inferior to an affair would be that she killed his children.”  
“The children are hers too, by the way ...,” Millicent started and got interrupted by Arthur: “And that makes killing a child ... what? Acceptable?”  
Millicent clicked impatiently with her tongue and went on: “... and she isn’t allowed to discipline him if he’s having a mistress.”  
“Of course not.” Arthur shook his head.  
“Why?”  
“Because she ... women can’t discipline a grown up man. Just think about it. You wouldn’t be able to get me over your knee, to hold me still, to keep me from wrest the cane from you and turn the tables.”  
Isobel’s cries were quietened down and Millicent nodded slowly.  
“Why do men get away with having an affair, while women get disciplined for ... kissing another person? Don’t you think that’s unfair?”  
“They didn’t leave it at kissing, Millie. You do know what fucking means. As I happen to be your husband, there’s no need for false shame and fulsome decency, sweetheart. So, to answer your question: No, it’s not unfair. You are mine, Millie. I don’t want another man’s cock in your pussy.”  
“And you aren’t mine and it’s alright to ... consummate the marriage with another woman?”  
“I’m yours, of course.” Arthur furrowed his brows and thought about his answer. “I don’t know ... a woman opens her legs out of love or for money. She’s a devoted wife or a whore, there’s nothing between, not in ... our world. Whereas a man is able to fuck a hundred whores and feels nothing except lust. If I’d fuck another woman it would ... mean nothing. I would let off steam or use her for something I won’t get in our marital bed. But there’s no love, it’s all about lust. I would be pissed if I’d get her pregnant. With you, I’d love to father a child.”  
“Arthur, that’s just wrong. What is it that you don’t get in our bedroom?” Millicent asked and stood up to clear the table, not only because it was her duty, mostly because he couldn’t see how much she blushed.  
“I get everything I want from you. That’s why I’m not in need of a mistress. You allow me to let off steam and I can’t think about anything what I’d like to try without you.”  
“You’re a charmer. So, what you want to say is, you’re faithful to me?”  
“Yes. And if you ever dare to open your legs for another man, Isobel’s today’s discipline will be a walk in the park contrary to the discipline you have to come. Just as a fair warning.”  
“You wouldn’t dare to discipline me, Arthur! I’m a modern woman, I won’t get disciplined. I will not allow it.” She filled the kettle with water and prepared the tea pot, trying to calm herself.  
“Remember our wedding night, Millie? I will never allow you to do these things to me, Arthur Shelby. That’s what you’d said. And now ... you enjoy all these things.” Arthur gave her a smug smile and poured himself a drink. “So, most likely, one day you’re going to go too far with testing my patience. And on this day, you’ll get the discipline you deserve. I’m old-fashioned and stubborn.”  
“Arthur ...,” Millicent started but stopped because she didn’t know what to say.  
He was right. She enjoyed everything he did to her. He could be a patient teacher and a charming seducer, and he also could be demanding, dominant, dark and impulsive. She loved both sides of him, the gentle and the rough one, alternating like the tides.  
Arthur waited a few seconds for her answer and went on, as she shook her head: “Back then, when I grew up, women got disciplined all day. Slightly burned bread: Ten on the ass. Dinner five minutes too late: A slap in the face. Not being able to keep the baby from crying: Ten with the cane. Refusing marital duties: A good hiding and a rape afterwards. I knew women who were thrashed every day, living all around the year with a black eye and bruises all over their bodies. But today ... the war ... made us weaker and softer. Maybe we’re more affectionate towards our loves, maybe we came back more thankful for only slightly burned bread, a too-late-but-still-delicious dinner and for being able to actually get to know our children. The war ... taught me to appreciate the peace.”  
“And you wanted me to stop fighting because you need the peace.”  
“Aye.” Arthur smiled, but became earnest again: “I’m gonna kill you, Millicent, if you give your love to another man. You are mine, you stay mine.”  
“If you ever try to discipline me, and I can’t think of a scenario which isn’t completely ridiculous, I’m gonna go for a divorce, Arthur.”  
“I slapped you already.” He said, lifting an eyebrow. “So, you leave me now?”  
Millicent blushed and shook her head: “That ... that slap ... I’ve earned.”  
Arthur nodded slowly: “I see.”  
“O saints and martyrs! Did I ... just admit that ... you were right?”  
“You did. I’m always right,” Arthur smiled, took a sip of his drink and stood up: “I want you to say the word, the one so dirty you replaced it with kissing.”  
“You already heard me say it.”  
“Swearing, aye. Say ‘Fuck me, Arthur, please’,” he grinned and came nearer. “You’re blushing,” he chuckled and Millicent bowed her head. “Say it, Millie, come on.”  
His voice a whisper, honey on steel, hypnotizing, no way out.  
“You are ... indecent and dirty, Mr. Shelby,” she answered and sighed as he bowed his head to kiss her neck. “I want ... oh ...”  
He’d reached the spot where her necks meets her shoulder, where every gentle touch, every kiss felt so indescribable good.  
“Say it, Millie.” Arthur took a few steps back and sat down on one of the chairs, leading Millie to stand between his legs.  
“Oh, alright ... if it makes you happy ...”  
“It does.”  
Millicent cleared her throat and said, demonstratively bored: “Fuck me, Arthur, please.”  
“You can do better,” he answered and Millicent squeaked as she was placed over his knee in one smooth movement, her legs trapped between his thighs, unable to kick, her wrists crossed in the small of her back, held by his left hand.  
He lifted her skirt, teasingly slow, and rubbed with his palm over her cheeks, modestly covered by underpants.  
“Fuck me, Arthur, please,” she whispered, eyes closed, tense in anticipation of a blow.  
“Once more.”  
“Fuck me, Arthur, please!”  
“Mhm, I will. Say it again.”  
“Fuck me, Arthur, please, fuck me!”  
“Gentle or rough, darling?”  
“That’s up to you,” Millicent whispered.  
Arthur let her go, helped her to stand up again. He took her hands in his and said: “Was it that bad? Saying these dirty words?”  
“No,” she answered, shaking her head.  
“Did it feel ... good?”  
“Yes.”  
“Relieving?”  
“Yes, somehow.”  
Arthur smiled, manipulative seducer he was: “And it’s the same with discipline. You fear it, you don’t want it, but then you notice it’s not that bad, it feels somehow good and relieving.”  
“Isobel sounded like it was something very bad.” Millicent answered indignantly and Arthur shrugged: “It hurt like hell, I guess. But now she’s forgiven. The storm’s over and her slate is clean.”  
“So, you want to tell me that you’re gonna discipline me?”  
“Aye. It’s wrong to discipline a woman on a regular basis, or for minor incidents. But sometimes ... it’s an instrument to make a new start.”  
“You put me over your knee and spank me, Arthur Shelby, and I’ll leave on the very same day.”  
He nodded and repeated her words of her wedding night: “I will never allow you to do these things to me, Arthur Shelby.”  
“I didn’t know what I was talking about. It sounded so horrifying and ...”  
“See?” He grinned and leant back: “Do you love me, Millicent Shelby?”  
“Yes, I do.”  
“Every other year a few slaps on your fantastic ass or a life without me. What do you choose?”  
“How can you love me and say that you’re going to spank me in the same conversation?”  
“What do you choose, Millie?”  
“I ... I choose you. Even if I hate you right now.” Millicent answered and turned around to head to the kitchen.  
She’d known that this man would be the dead of her. And of her sanity. And a little voice in her head said that Arthur Shelby was right. It’s the dose that makes the poison.  
“I can never ever attend a meeting at the women’s club,” she whispered to herself. “I’d want the ground to open and swallow me up.”


	15. Chapter 15

She felt like a traitor, sitting in the assembly room of the women’s club, listening to the speeches and knowing that she failed in being a fighter for women’s rights. She sat here, in this room, because her husband had allowed her graciously to attend the meetings. On her way home she would feel the change from a seemingly free woman to the devoted wife of an old-fashioned patriarch. She was torn apart between her dreams and the fight for necessary changes in their society and her love to Arthur.  
Millicent just couldn’t forget their talk about disciplining grown-up women in the week before. In addition to Arthur’s words running circles in her head an unwelcomed scene replayed over and over in her mind: Arthur standing in front of the bed, while she knelt to his feet and sucked his cock. She had been so eager to please him, to hear the stuttered praise falling from his lips, mixed with curses and her name. Back then it hadn’t felt humiliating or shameful, but right now, hearing Mrs. Audrey Haller-Fortescue ranting about the male vice of getting served and pleasured in whatever way they choose, she felt horrible and ashamed. She enjoyed giving him pleasure. And he gave her pleasure back, more than she’d ever imagined. How could that be wrong? But Mrs. Haller-Fortescue demanded to refuse these duties until they were no duties anymore. Millicent thought about the possibility that Mrs. Haller-Fortescue’s husband was a horrible lover, not interested in his wife’s pleasure, contrary to Arthur. Maybe her hate for pleasuring a man was justified with her own miserable life behind closed bedroom doors. Millicent had understood, after many discussions and conversations in the club, that Arthur was somehow special, that many men were not that caring, that rape was a big problem in many marriages. She could consider herself as very lucky.  
Arthur used her for his pleasure, but he never missed giving her what she needed. Millicent knew he did it because he enjoyed his position as a husband, he liked having sex and liked watching her come undone.  
“We are free women, we control our bodies and our reactions. We’re not dumps for men’s semen, ladies! We decide when or where or with whom or if we want to be with child or not!”  
Millicent nodded reflexively. She had nothing to decide. Arthur did. He used her whenever he wanted, where he wanted, he chose what happened, which way he’d take her. She could still feel his hands on her shoulders, pressing her down. The hoarse command to suck him off. He’d picked all the hairpins from her head, and threw them on the floor, made her crawl and search the bloody hairpins after they were finished. Once he’d found her hair free falling he’d closed his hands around her head, guiding her. Yes, he’d been careful, but he led. Unmistakable. Just like he always did.  
“What do you think?” A male voice at her side said and she flinched, not knowing what to answer.  
She was so confused that she, by a hair’s breadth, had answered something like: I think of sucking the cock of my husband. But she bit on her tongue and turned to the speaker: “Pardon?”  
“What do you think about the topic?”  
“Oh, I ... Mrs. Haller-Fortescue is a stirring speaker. I’ve heard her a few times on rallies and discussions. I think, she’s right, although men don’t like to hear the truth, don’t they?”  
She gave him a smile and he smiled back: “It’s my first time here and I’m thrilled about her ideas.”  
“Really?”  
“Yes. I believe in justice and equality. Oh, let me introduce myself. I’m Harry Lambert, solicitor.”  
“Millicent Shelby. I’m pleased to meet you.” She answered politely and focused on the podium again.  
“Miss Shelby or Mrs?”  
“Mrs. Mrs. Arthur Shelby,” she answered and noticed that he didn’t even bat an eye.  
He must be new in town if he had never heard of Arthur Shelby and didn’t know that he walked on dangerous grounds by talking to the wife of one of the most dangerous men in town.  
“Where do you come from? You’re not from Birmingham, right, sir?”  
“Born and raised in Nottingham, Mrs. Shelby. I moved to Birmingham two weeks ago, I’m taking over the office of my uncle, the honourable Alister O’Higgins.”  
“And the first thing you do when you’re new in town is visiting a discussion of the women’s club?”  
“Yes. I’m not only a fighter for women’s rights, I’m also primarily specialized on divorces. And I’m in urgent need of a secretary for my office.”  
“I see,” Millicent smiled and nodded as he asked her for a cup of tea after the discussion.

 

The bedroom was pitch dark, the house silent. Arthur had thrown the duvet over their bodies in the moment she started to shiver. She was wide awake, having slept for about three hours when Arthur woke her up to love her, like he did nearly every night. She was warm and cosy, satisfied and ready to discuss her newest idea with him.  
“Mr. Shelby?” She asked as his breath started to even out.  
“Aye?”  
“I’ve got an offer for a job.”  
“You already have a job, Millie. Sleep well, sweetheart.” He answered, kissed her forehead and pulled her closer.  
“Please, Arthur, hear my case, will you?”  
He sighed and mumbled his agreement.  
“Today I met a man at the women’s club. He’s an advocate and he’s taking over his uncle’s office. He needs a secretary and I want to apply for the job. His name is Harry Lambert and he’ll be working at O’Higgins and Partners.”  
“No.”  
“Arthur, please. I’m so bored, I’m not allowed to write and ...”  
“Stop. You’re accusing me? Are you sure about this? You are allowed. You offered to quit writing, it wasn’t my idea, so don’t set me up for this. You are allowed to write as long as you keep me and our marital life out of your articles.”  
“I’m sorry, Arthur. I didn’t mean to blame you. I just ... want a task outside the house, something more challenging than doing laundry, cooking and sweeping the stairs.”  
“No.”  
“Please,” she whispered, placing kisses on his collarbone. “Please, please. It would mean so much to me. And I would be home soon enough to cook dinner.”  
“No.”  
“Why not?”  
“Uh, where should I start? First, he’s a lawyer. Second, you already have a job. Third, we don’t need the money. Fourth, I want to see my wife from time to time. With a job and your commitment for the women’s rights thing you would be away on business the whole day. I work mostly in the afternoon and the evenings, I wouldn’t see you anymore. Fifth, we wanted to start a family. It’s pretty sappy to start a job and quit it after a few weeks because we find out you’re with child.”  
“I would work in the afternoons too, Arthur. In the mornings he’s at the court. He needs a secretary able to work in the afternoons. Please, please, let me at least try it.” Millicent sniffled and tried to sob a bit – she knew Arthur softened every time she cried.  
“Millie ...,” he said, his voice so much gentler than seconds before. “Don’t cry, darling.”  
“Please,” she would beg until she were hoarse, that was the plan. “I’ll do whatever you want if you let me try it.”  
“You do whatever I want either way, luv,” Arthur answered dryly. “Tell me more about him.”  
“He’s specialized on divorces and ...”  
“Sixth: He’s specialized on divorces.”  
“Arthur! He studied in London, he’s 30 years old, a bachelor, who doesn’t want to marry because he knows how horrible marriages are.”  
“I should discipline you for talking to such a manipulative arsehole.” Arthur patted softly on her bum and cleared his throat: “You really want this, aye? So, not more than four hours a day. In a month we’ll talk again. And you will quit if I’m displeased with the quality of our meals and the state of our house.”  
“Thank you, Arthur, a thousand times!” Millicent cried and kissed him on the lips.  
“Think about one thing, Millie: You didn’t have a single coherent argument to convince me. You said you want and you started to cry. You won’t win a war by stomping with your feet and shedding a few tears.”  
“But I won this battle. And in the end the winner of the most battles wins the war, right?”  
“Right. But this battle isn’t over. It’s just truce. In a month, Millie, you should have some arguments.”  
“Alright. I’m gonna ... find a dozen.”  
“Good luck. You won’t find a single one. There is just none. A married woman stays at home. That’s where she belongs.” Arthur answered and added after a kiss: “Good night, Private Shelby. You’ve got some hard times coming.”  
“I don’t fear hard work.” She whispered and smiled as he grunted in response, already half asleep.


	16. Chapter 16

Three weeks down the road Millicent was beaming with joy because of her job. She just loved doing something useful. She talked to the many women searching help at Mr. Lambert’s office, heard so many stories of tragic fates and recruited every day at least one woman for the meetings at the Women’s Club. Her days were busy now, she did her chores in record speed, strictly anxious to do everything perfectly. Arthur shouldn’t find a reason to force her to quit. After lunch she left the house with Arthur, and he drove her to Harry Lambert’s office before he pursued his own business. After four hours of work she took the bus at 5:30 p.m. to drive home. She had managed dinner on time every day and he hadn’t had a single reason to complain. Everything was just perfect. Only her father had been furious, not only because she still wasn’t with child, he blamed Arthur for having permitted this “stupid nonsense”. 

Mr. Lambert turned out to be a very good boss, good-humoured and relaxed. He seemed to be a real gentleman and he was hooked with helping women out of horrible marriages. His enthusiasm was stirring and it was uplifting to watch how hard he fought for every client. Millicent knew he was always the first one in the mornings and the very last in the evenings.  
“Mr. Lambert? Your tea,” Millicent said, stepping into his office, serving him a cup of tea, like every day around 3 p.m.  
“Thank you. How about getting yourself a cup of tea and take a seat?”  
“Alright, thank you.” Millicent wondered what he could want and hurried in the little kitchen.  
Once back she took the chair reserved for his clients and placed her cup carefully on his desk.  
“How long are you married, Mrs. Shelby?” He asked and grabbed a note pad from a pile of papers.  
“Eight months, Mr. Lambert.”  
“I’ve heard rumours,” he said carefully. “Worrisome rumours.”  
“Really? What was it that made you worry?”  
“I’ve heard you didn’t marry Mr. Shelby by choice, that you didn’t know him, that you first saw him in front of the altar.”  
“Mr. Lambert, I appreciate your worries, but ...”  
“Is it true?” He asked, making notes on the pad.  
Millicent took a deep breath and looked on her lap. “It is almost true. I’d seen him for the first time on the day before the wedding.”  
“That’s awful. I’m sorry to hear this. But you could go for a divorce. I’m offering you my help, Mrs. Shelby. Whoever forced you to say your vows, we can fight him and win. Whatever they hold over your head, we’re gonna find a way out. No woman should be forced to marry a man she doesn’t know.”  
“No, thank you, Mr. Lambert. Is that all for the moment?” She asked and stood up.  
“Does he treat you well?” Harry asked and raised his eyebrows.  
“Yes, he does.”  
“I’m sorry, but this is hardly believable, not in general and especially not on a day like today. Arthur Shelby is known as a very cruel and violent person. He’s a member of the Peaky Blinders, one of their leaders. Did you know that?”  
“Of course, Mr. Lambert. I don’t want to talk whether about the business of my husband nor our marital life. Please, don’t ask again.”  
“Do you really don’t want or are you not allowed to talk about your husband’s business and your marital life?”  
“I’m at my desk, if you need me.” Millicent answered, took her cup of tea, turned around and walked to the door.  
“Why did he give you that black eye, Mrs. Shelby? I met you at the women’s club, you can’t take a beating as acceptable. You know that he’s wrong, that he has no right to beat you up.”  
“He didn’t beat me up, Mr. Lambert. Yesterday evening I was in a hurry because the bus was about 20 minutes late and I stumbled over my own shoes. I fell on the brink of the chest of drawers in the hallway.”  
And obviously the bloody make up didn’t cover it up enough, Millicent thought.  
“Do you know how many times I’ve heard stories like this? And how many times they turned out as lies?” Harry Lambert sighed deeply, shaking his head: “You know where to find me if you want to leave the hell you’re living in.”  
“I’m ... Mr. Lambert, please consider one thing: Mr. Shelby didn’t want to marry me and he also didn’t know me. He was forced to say his vows, just as I was forced. We’re in this together. And we make the best of it. We get along very well.”  
“You fled after a few weeks. Why?”  
“How can you know this?” Millicent asked and shook her head in disbelieve.  
“Everyone in Birmingham knows this. They still crack jokes about Arthur Shelby’s inaptness to keep his wife in line.”  
Millicent closed her eyes for a few seconds and took a deep breath. The ringing of the phone spared her the answer.  
“Excuse me,” she said and left the office to answer the phone on her desk. 

“I’m going to pack in, Mr. Lambert,” Millicent called at 5 through the closed door to his office. “Have a nice weekend, sir!”  
She heard his footsteps and the door to his office jarred when he opened it.  
“Same for you, Mrs. Shelby,” he answered and she flashed him a smile over her shoulder, seeing him leaning in the doorframe.  
“Thank you.” She took her handbag, headed to the door and opened it.  
“Mrs. Shelby?”  
“Mr. Lambert?” Millicent turned around again and he came closer.  
He stood right in front of her, lowering his voice to a whisper: “Mrs. Shelby, Millie ... if he treats you badly, I offer you protection. There’s a shelter for battered women in Nottingham. My sister’s the matron. If you need money for a train ticket to Nottingham, just say a word and I give it to you. I wanna help you. Think of it. He will never find you in Nottingham and I won’t say a word.”  
“Thank you for the offer, but I don’t need protection.”  
“Millie ...” He placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them gently. “Millie, please, for heaven’s sake ... you need protection. The Peaky Blinders may control big parts of the Birmingham police, but they have nothing to say in Nottingham. You would be safe.”  
“Mr. Lambert,” Millicent started and froze as he bowed his head and placed a kiss on every cheek.  
“Just give me a call, Millie.”  
Harry Lambert looked up and cleared his throat, his hands left her shoulders, his voice businesslike again as he spoke: “May I help you?”  
“No. But I may help you,” Arthur’s voice said and Millicent stopped breathing.  
“Really? With what?”  
“With addressing this lady correctly. Her name is Mrs. Shelby. Mrs. Arthur Shelby. Say it.”  
Millicent turned around and prepared herself for seeing murder in Arthur’s face. She was right.  
“Arthur, please, it’s alright. He just said goodbye and wished us a nice weekend.”  
“Shut up, Millie,” he growled and pulled his gun out of the holster.  
He grabbed Harry Lambert with the left hand by the lapel and pressed the gun under his chin.  
“How do you address my wife correctly?”  
“Mrs. Shelby,” Harry whispered, his voice strained, sweat beading on his forehead.  
“Who do you think is allowed to call her Millie?”  
“You, sir?”  
“Right. Who do you think is allowed to kiss her?”  
“You, sir.”  
“Why did you kiss her, if you’d already known the answer?”  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby. Please accept my sincere apology.”  
Arthur hauled off and Harry’s nose made a horrible, cracking noise as the pistol grip met the nasal bone. Millicent clasped her hands over her mouth and looked away as the blood surged out of his nose. Harry whimpered and pressed his handkerchief against his broken nose.  
“Mrs. Shelby resigns from this job. Without notice. Are we clear?” Arthur hissed and pushed him back, made him stumble and fell on his backside. “Come on, Millicent. We’re done here.”  
Arthur grabbed her upper arm and pushed her gently out of the door.  
“Oh, and just to be clear, Lambert: You know that reporting a bloody nose is wasted time, as I control big parts of the Birmingham police, right?”  
Millicent felt that he was on the edge of flipping out and so she didn’t dare to say a single word until they were home. He boiled with rage, pacing in the kitchen, pouring himself a drink and refusing the cup of tea she offered him.  
“He thought it was you,” she whispered, touching her black eye. “I told him that it wasn’t your fault, but he didn’t believe me.”  
Arthur nodded with clenched teeth, and seconds later she heard the front door bang. Arthur was gone. He’d search someone he could beat up, he’d volunteer for a fight in the box ring. He had to let off steam, to calm himself by letting all the anger surge out, to come to his senses by receiving pain and bloody wounds and bruises. He’d come home late in the night, presumably drunk, and he’d wake her up to lull the rest of his rage by making love to her. Tomorrow morning the sheets would be bloody again, like they were so often. Once a month it was her blood, ruining the sheets, every other week his blood when he came home bleeding, refusing to let her take care of his wounds.


	17. Chapter 17

Millie woke with a start, needing a second to realize what had happened. The bedroom door had crashed into the wall with a loud bang and Arthur stood in front of their bed.   
“I’m fed up!” He roared. “I’m sick of it!”  
His shoes flew through the room, followed by the buttons of his shirt that he ripped open. He was drunk, his face bloody, he’d got a black eye and he was furious. Arthur stumbled two steps forward, to her side, grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her into a sitting position.   
“Stop! You’re hurting me, please, Arthur!” Millicent cried, grasping his wrist with both hands and tried to pull his fist out of her hair.   
“No more jobs outside the house for you, wife,” he slurred. “I’m sick of this suffragette bullshit ruling my marriage. ‘M losing my patience right fucking now ...”   
His lips crashed on hers, nipping her protests in the bud. Millicent tried to fight him but realized after a few seconds that it was futile. She’d have to surrender, like the good and devoted wife he wanted her to be. He was so drunk that he possibly would rape her if she offered resistance. She knew that she couldn’t hope for him being gentle and slow, not in his state, but he’d never really hurt her. And rape hurt, hurt like hell and meanwhile she was experienced enough to understand why.   
“Let me help you,” she whispered on his lips, ignoring the pain on her scalp, forming a plan in her head.   
She would try to slow him up, try to get on top, try to lead him, to calm him. He grunted in response and Millicent stood up, his fist still in her hair, and started to strip him bare. She placed sweet little kisses on his neck, his collarbones, the breast bone and on his nipples.   
“You’re bleeding, my love,” she whispered between kisses and he closed his eyes and nodded. “You’ve got bruises everywhere. Did you win the fight?”   
“Aye. They made jokes about me. Called me a wimp, a henpecked softy. I showed them how much they were mistaken.” He answered inarticulately and pressed her down on her knees, his fist like an iron clamp in her hair. “Take me out.”  
Millicent opened his trousers and his pants and whispered: “Arthur, please ...”  
“Shut up, Millie. Use your tongue for something valuable. Open up, come on.”   
She smelled his scent, blood and arousal and opened her mouth, licked over his tip, still thinking about a plan.   
“You’re so battered, I’m gonna ride you, aye? Let me do the work, will you?” She whispered and took him as deep as she could manage in her mouth.   
“So you can be in control, eh? Like hell, Millie,” he rasped. “No swallowing, no more fucks in the ass, no condoms. Gonna make you a mom. Then you’ve got a job for the next 20 years and these bastards will finally stop making fun of me.”   
“No one dares to make fun of you ...,” she whispered soothingly and flinched as he barked: “They do. And that’s all your fucking fault, wife! You and your bloody modern ideas ...”  
Arthur flexed his arm and pulled her up again, making her gasp because of the pain on her scalp, then he kissed her once more, hungry and forceful, and undressed her in record speed. He shoved her back on the bed and got rid of the rest of his clothing, before he crawled over her and spread her legs.   
“I’m not ready, Arthur, please, don’t hurt me,” she begged and in the blink of an eye her fear was back. “Please. You promised you won’t rape me. Do you remember?”  
He was totally out of control, so drunk, so angry, he would force her to take whatever pleased him. This was the Arthur Shelby everyone feared, who made braver and bigger man piss in their pants. He stared at her for a few seconds, his brows furrowed like he was in deep thought. Then he placed his hand on one of her breasts, his thumb brushing over her nipple.   
“I told him you treat me well, that we get along great. I told him the truth. I don’t want a divorce. I love you.” She said, just to say something, just to pull him out of this angry, hateful haze he stuck in.  
She sensed that he was hurt, that he felt betrayed and alone, that he saw himself as a loser everyone made fun of, felt like his life slipped out of his hands.   
He grunted, his gaze locked with hers, his touch getting softer, like she liked and needed it.   
“One day in the future, Arthur, you will look at our little one and me, and think of the night you created this little bundle of joy,” she whispered. “I always hoped that the memory of the night I got pregnant for the first time would be a wonderful memory, full of love. I don’t wanna cry thinking of the night you made me a mother. Don’t you want to ... father our child in love? Don’t you want it to be a gentle memory warming your heart every time you think of it?”   
“I’m not one for heart-warming memories,” he answered, but his touch remained gentle.   
“Why not? Isn’t this better than the nightmares plaguing you?”  
Arthur nodded slowly and bowed his head to suck at her nipple. She moaned lowly, feeling her arousal rising. He did so good, he knew so well what made her wet, what she liked, what she loved, what made her scream with pleasure. With a wet “plop” her nipple left his mouth, his hand snaked between her legs and she felt his breath at her ear.   
“Wanna hear you beg for it, Mrs. Shelby.” He whispered hoarsely. “Beg with all the pretty words you know. Beg me for my cock, my seed, for a baby.”   
Millicent worked up all the courage and shook her head: “I can’t, Arthur. I’m sorry, so sorry.”  
He stilled and gave her a long look, his guard down because of his drunken state and his arousal. She saw how much she’d hurt him, noticed his longing, his hate, the loneliness, the fear. In this moment she fully understood that she was his weak spot, that all these bastards on the street made fun of him because he truly loved and respected her, because the dreaded Arthur Shelby crawled to the feet of his wife, like a compliant little lap dog. And everyone knew it. She’d gone to the women’s club, she’d been on the marches for women’s rights, he’d allowed her to take a job at a lawyer specialised on divorces, and after eight months of marriage he still hadn’t get her pregnant. In the eyes of all the patriarchs around him he was the biggest fool in the midlands, a pathetic loser, with a wife who had him by the balls.   
“I’m sorry,” she whispered once more.   
“Screw you, Millicent,” he answered and left the bed.   
He staggered to the door and walked out, into the other bedroom that he hadn’t used for months. She thought about what to do next, considering her options. Not that she had many, but only one of the few she had would lead to a happy ending. She wanted to choose the right one. The one that would make her happy. Millicent got up and followed him. She softly closed the door and walked over to the bed. Arthur lay with his back to the door, his front facing the wall. He wasn’t asleep, but he didn’t turn around or even mumble a single word. Millie lifted the blanket and slipped at his side, forcing her arm under him, placing both hands on his chest. She felt his heart beating, the steady rise and fall of his thorax. She spooned him and placed a kiss between his shoulder blades.   
“I’m afraid,” she said. “My heart wants to give in, to make your wish come true, but my mind keeps telling me that ... that it is perfect right now and every change is dangerous. I don’t wanna lose you and for sure I don’t wanna lose a child. Giving birth is dangerous business, for me and for the baby. Being alive is dangerous too for a little one. I’ve lost three brothers when they were very young. I saw my mother’s heart break into thousand pieces. Every son that died took a piece of her with him down in the grave. That’s why I’m afraid, Arthur. The majority of the people in Birmingham fear your wrath, but unfortunately the measles don’t. Or the scarlet fever.”   
He didn’t answer, he only placed his right hand over hers, intertwining their fingers.   
“I love you, Arthur, I really do.” She placed another kiss on his spine and whispered: “Remember our first dinner here in our house? The sandwiches? I asked you if I have to fear you and you said that you are easier to fear or hate than to like or love. But right now, I guess it’s me who’s easier to hate and I understand if you do.”   
Arthur remained silent and Millicent pulled her hands from his chest, ready to get up and walk back into her own bedroom.   
“Stay,” he demanded simply and she did as she was told.   
“Can you forgive me?” She asked, but he didn’t even react.


	18. Chapter 18

The silence lasted for more than two weeks and Millicent felt horrible, the demoralizing effects of being ignored slowly eroded her resistance, her mind, her soul. He drank, he slept in his own bedroom, sharing nothing with her, not a single meal, not a single word. Arthur didn’t comment on anything she did. Not on the oversalted dinner on Wednesday, not on her going to the movies on Saturday night with Esme. On Sunday she even flirted a bit with Finn, while he watched her closely, eyes squinted, but he didn’t intervene, didn’t give his brother a slap on the back of the head and he didn’t mention her scandalous behavior during their silent dinner.   
So, all she could do was eating humble pie. And after a night she’d spent with crying and bathing in miserable self-pity she decided that it was time.   
He swallowed the last bite of his very late dinner (she’d eaten two hours ago at their normal dinner time), placed forked and knife on the table and stood up, without any other word.   
“Wait, please, don’t go.” Millicent said and he turned around, his brows furrowed, his facial expression bored.   
She cleared her throat and Arthur took his watch out of the pocket, signalising that she should better hurry up.   
“Can we ... start over again? Please?”  
He gave her a cheerless, short laugh and turned around, ready to leave. Very fast, she paced around the table, squeezed herself between his body and the door.   
“Arthur Shelby, you won’t leave until we’ve sorted this out!”  
He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her gently out of his way, and Millicent started to cry. Not conspiratorial, she just couldn’t help. Arthur stopped in the movement and took a deep breath. She knew he couldn’t stand seeing her cry.   
“Please,” she sobbed. “I’ll do whatever you want, if you stop being mute in my presence.”   
“I doubt that.” He answered, without looking at her.   
“Please, Arthur.” She whispered and suddenly she remembered the conversation they’d lead about George and Isobel.   
Discipline is an instrument to make a new start. These were his words back then. Could she do this? Betraying all her beliefs by granting him the right to discipline her? She knew discipline, she knew she could physically take it. Her father did it every other week, her mother was very fond of the belt as an instrument of decent education. But back then she had been a child. Now she was a grown up woman, and Arthur should be her partner at eye level. But his world didn’t work this way, in his world, that turned so much slower, he was the head of the household, his word was law. If he wanted to become a father, she had the bloody duty to give him the child he longed for. In his world, “no” was a word a wife would never dare to say to her husband. Regardless, he lived in a marriage where “no” was the only word he’d ever heard. Whatever he’d wanted, “no” had been her first response. Arthur Shelby was known as a man of a short temper, a temper she tested since the first morning of her marriage. He’d proofed patience with her, but now he seemed to be at the end of his tether. And, for heaven’s sake, she loved him and she wanted this marriage to work. She wanted to be happy and she wanted him to be happy too. So, maybe it was time for a radical change of her tactics. She had to give it at least a try. If it didn’t work out, she could take a step back.   
“I ... I ... so far, I was a miserable wife. I apologize and beg for your forgiveness. I refused having a baby, although I’d known that you want me to be with child. I did everything wrong in this marriage and ...”  
“Not everything,” Arthur interrupted and gave her an encouraging nod.   
“Oh ... so, I’m glad to hear this,” she answered rattled and needed a second to continue: “Please, give us a chance for a new start. I ... consent if you see the need to discipline me. And ... and if you want me to I beg you ... to ... to love me without ... conception avoidance, I’ll do it.”   
It was incredibly hard to manage these major concessions, but she knew that she hadn’t any other choice.   
“You want a new start on my terms? You promise you’ll be good?”  
“I ... I guess it’s fair to try your views on marriage as mine didn’t seem to work out very well. I promise I’ll be good. I’m gonna be the devoted wife you wish for. I ... at least I’ll try.” Millicent said, not knowing if she’d entered the scaffold with these words, or if she’d find a paradise in them.   
“Good.” He nodded and opened the door.   
“Wait, please! Are you ... are you going?”  
“Got some work to do, Millie. I’ll be home after midnight. Sleep well.”  
She flinched as the front door slammed shut and asked herself if she did something wrong, if she’d misinterpreted his wishes. 

At around 1 a.m. she heard his footsteps on the stairs, he went for the bathroom and the house was silent again. She felt the well-known relief that he was home, alive and unharmed, and closed her eyes again. Millicent was ready to go back to sleep as the bedroom door opened. He’d decided to sleep in their bed, not in his room. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Maybe he wasn’t angry anymore and had accepted her apology and the promise she’d made. The mattress sunk in and she slid at his side, nearly closing the gap between them.   
“Hey,” she whispered, but didn’t dare to touch him.  
“Hey,” Arthur answered and pulled her closer.  
The warmth of his body, his familiar scent, the feeling of finding shelter made her sigh in happiness. Being hold by him was one of the simplest and at the same time greatest pleasures of life.   
“Are you still angry with me?” She asked after a minute of listening to his even breathing and his steady heartbeat.   
“I wasn’t angry. Deeply disappointed, yes, angry: no.”   
“I’m so sorry. I love you.”  
“You said that a hundred times since I took you back, but you bloody fail in showing me. Empty words, aren’t they?”   
She swallowed hard and didn’t know what to answer, so she remained silent. Arthur took a deep breath and seemed to be drifting into sleep soon after.   
“Don’t ... don’t you want to ... insist on your rights?”   
He hadn’t touched her for nearly three weeks now and she’d expected him to love her as soon as he entered the bed.   
“I’m no rapist, Millie, and I’m not fully convinced of your umpteenth change of views. You wanted a new start on my terms. My terms including my seed in your womb, a baby and another baby. My terms including all the rules you don’t want me to recap. Are you aware of that?”  
“Yes. You still want me ... to beg for it, aye? With all the pretty words I know?”  
She felt him shrugging and took a deep breath.   
“I missed you,” she whispered, “so much. I missed your kisses and your touch.” Millicent opened her nightgown, took his hand in hers and led him to her breast. “I wanna feel you deep in me, I want you to spill your seed in my belly, I want to carry your baby and I want you to make me a mother. Right now, tonight. Please, Arthur, fuck me.”   
Arthur moaned lowly and whispered: “Say it again.”   
“I wanna feel you deep in me, your seed in my belly. I want to be with child, Arthur, with your child. Make me a mother, please. I can’t wait to feel my belly growing. Please, fuck me.” She whispered and felt for his cock, founding him hard and ready.   
She touched him like he taught her and smiled at his chest in the moment his instincts took over, his guard crumbled in the moment he started thinking with his cock. She took his hand from her breast and led him between her legs.   
“You’re wet, and I have barely touched you,” he mumbled and dipped his fingertip into her pussy to spread some of her wetness over her clitoris.   
“Love me, please,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”   
“You bloody are, wife. Don’t you want me to make you feel good before I fuck a baby into you?”  
“Can you make me feel good when you spill your seed into me? At the same time?” Millicent whispered and caressed his cheek.   
“Worth a try,” he answered and she could feel that he grinned.   
He rolled his body over hers, spread her legs wide, and entered her with one, hard thrust. She gasped at the sensation of feeling so incredibly full.   
“A fair warning, wife: Tonight I don’t care if you change your mind. I’m gonna fill you up with my seed, regardless what you’re gonna say in a few minutes.”   
“You won’t hear anything but begging for everything you’ve got to give, Arthur,” she whispered and knew that she spoke the truth. 

Afterwards, after holding her promise, she lay in his arms, feeling every single drop of his seed hot in her belly. She cried silently, suddenly fearing her own courage, but of course he noticed her tears.   
“Ssshhh,” he soothed. “It’s alright, it’s alright. I’ve got you. Relax, Millie, let it happen. Stop fighting, will you? There’s no shame in surrender after a brave fight.”  
“I’m so exhausted, so tired.” She whispered and he hummed approvingly.   
“Sleep, sweetheart.”  
“I ... need to go the bathroom,” Millicent said and tried to sit up, but he didn’t let her leave.   
“No,” he simply answered. “My seed stays where it is. You won’t douche it out.”   
“I didn’t want to ...” She started but he closed her mouth with his hand: “Don’t lie to me. Now, sleep. It’s after 2. Time to rest, honey.”  
“Arthur?”  
“Hm?”  
“Will you discipline me tomorrow? To make a new start?”   
“No. That’s the advantage of being pregnant, Millie. No discipline.”  
“But you don’t know if I’m pregnant,” Millicent answered and rolled her eyes over her own foolishness.   
“As long as you’re not bleeding I’m presuming that you’re with child.”  
“Oh, thank you so much.” She sighed, not able to cover the relief in her voice. “Good night, Arthur.”  
“Same for you. Oh, and I’m gonna fuck you again before breakfast, so you’re gonna stay in bed until I wake up. That’s an order.”  
Millicent nodded and closed her eyes, commending her body to the inevitable.


	19. Chapter 19

“We’ve missed you at the last two meetings, Millie,” Caroline said and took a sip of the tea Millie had served.   
“I was ... busy,” she answered, knowing that her smile look forced, not only because this was a big lie, the itching she felt since breakfast was quite excruciating.   
All that she wanted was to be alone and scratch until it stopped.  
“Were you? What could be more important than our fight?”Caroline asked and lifted an eyebrow. “Either way, I’m here to ask about the women’s club picnic on Saturday. I’d hoped that you’d donate one or two cakes or pies. Will Mr. Shelby attend the picnic too?”  
“I ... I don’t think so, Caroline. I guess we’re ... out of town the upcoming weekend.” Millie was a terrible liar and she knew that.   
But she made a promise and she fought very hard to keep it. Caroline chattered about this and that, complained about her husband, the children, a new teacher at the school, while Millie only wished that her guest would go and let her live in peace. As long as she was alone, the arrangement with Arthur wasn’t this worse. But in the company of other women, other fighters she felt terrible, like the gutless traitor she was.   
The front door wasn’t closed longer than a second, when Millie did two things at once: She started to cry out of nothing and scratched like crazy over her breasts. They itched like hell, for hours now. During the dinner preparation she stopped over and over to scratch and rub over her nipples, teeth gritted, thoughts jumping between Caroline, the picnic, Arthur, her promise and the bloody itching. She was so busy rubbing frantically over her modestly covered nipples that she didn’t notice Arthur coming home.   
“What are you doing?” He asked and she flinched, stopping to rub immediately.   
“It ... nothing. Cooking dinner.”  
Arthur came closer, turned her around and kissed her. Millicent sighed and pressed her body to his, the hard fabric of his jacket rubbed over her chest, feeling like heaven compared to the thin, smooth material of her undergarment and her blouse.   
“Tell me.” He demanded after breaking the kiss and took a step back, eliciting a moan of frustration from Millicent.   
“My breasts ... they itch like hell. I don’t know why and it drives me crazy. It started after breakfast and I could ... rub myself bloody since then. It just won’t stop.”   
“Come here, darling,” he said and sat down, pulling her between his legs, a smile on his lips. “Itching, eh?”  
“Yes. Why are you smiling? This isn’t a bit funny.”  
“Funny? No. But joyful it is, I guess.”   
“I can’t see anything joyful in the need to scratch my skin bloody, Arthur, I’m sorry.” She mumbled and made a face.  
“Many years ago I came into another kitchen,” Arthur said and started slowly to open the buttons of her blouse. “There was Martha, John’s first wife. She was rubbing over her nipples like crazy and when she noticed me, she asked me where John was. I told her he’d gone to the tobacco shop but had to be back every minute. Martha was ... very upfront and she told me that her nipples itched like hell and she needed John to give her release. Just a few moments later John entered the kitchen and she sighed and said, without giving a shit about my presence: ‘There you are. God, John, please, I need you to suck on my nipples. They’re itching like hell.’ John laughed and answered: ‘Told you it would start in a few days.’ They left to go upstairs and later that day I asked John what that was about. He told me that every time Martha is with child her nipples start to itch like crazy. And the only fucking thing that helps is a mouth sucking on them. She misses her monthly bleeding and just a few days down the road her nipples itch. These were his words.”  
Millicent held her breath, meanwhile standing barechested in the kitchen, her nipples hard and still itching.   
“You’ve missed your bleeding this month, aye?”  
“Maybe I’m just late,” Millicent answered and Arthur shook his head slightly: “No, you’re not.”  
And then his mouth closed around one nipple and he sucked gently, swirling with his tongue over the peak and it felt so good, so unbelievably good. Her hands closed around the back of his head, holding him in place. Her head fell back and she moaned lowly. She’d always liked it when Arthur had paid some attention on her breasts but it had never been _this_ good.   
“Better?” He asked, cushioned by her flesh, and she moaned: “God, yes, so much better. Please, don’t stop!”  
Her nipple left his mouth with a “plop” and she felt his breath on the wet skin when he started to speak: “I always wondered if I would be so lucky to have a woman carrying my child and begging me desperately to suck on her nipples, because I’m the only one who could give her release. If I would ever be so lucky like John who had experienced this more than one time, so often that it grew from a little secret he’d shared with his wife to something he was so self-assured about that he shared this knowledge with another man, even if this man was only his brother.”  
“I don’t ... think that ... please, Arthur, I need your mouth ...” Millicent whispered and he gave her a smile.   
“Say it like Martha, please. I wanna hear it from you.” He grinned and blew a long drawn breath over the still wet skin.   
“Arthur, please, I need you to suck on my nipples. They’re itching like hell,” Millicent begged and Arthur closed his eyes and took another deep breath, enjoying this moment visibly.   
“Why do they itch, what do you think?” He mumbled and took the other nipple in his mouth.  
He looked up to her and watched her closely, sucking slowly, twirling the peak of her other breast gently with his fingers.   
“I ... I’m with child,” Millicent answered. “I’m twelve days past-due with my bleeding. Please, Arthur, don’t stop, don’t stop!”  
“Whatever you need, darling,” he answered without losing contact to her breast.   
“I need to go to ... oh, god! To the picnic of the women’s club on Saturday. May I, please?” She whispered and started to massage his nape.   
“Do you really wanna go there?”  
“Yes, please.”  
“I’m not able to give you release while you’re on a picnic.”  
“Mhm. Maybe ... the itching is gone until Saturday.”  
“Don’t think so.” He whispered and sucked harder, making her gasp. “John said, the itching lasts for weeks.”  
“Oh, god, please, no ...” Millicent sighed and closed her eyes, enjoying every second of release. “For Saturday, I’m gonna bake a cake and ... bring it to the park, have a little chat and be home an hour after I’ve left. I promise.”   
“Alright.” Arthur answered and let go of her breasts. “Guess you will survive an hour without my mouth, sweetheart. And if not, you’re gonna come home earlier, aye?”  
She felt the longing for him burning in her lower body, in her pussy. She stand there, in the middle of her kitchen, her breasts bared, the peaks glistening wet, her breathing heavy and the desire for this man making it impossible to think straight. It was obscene, yet so good. He watched her, his facial expression not even a bit disparagingly or triumphantly, he watched her with awe, full of love.  
“Thank you, Arthur.”  
“Welcome, honey.”  
She noticed that he opened his pants, freeing his erect penis.   
“How much time until dinner?” He asked hoarsely and she took a look over her shoulder to the stove.   
“At least thirty minutes.”   
“Good,” he approved. “That’s enough.”  
Their gazes locked and on the edge of her field of vision she could see that he stroked his cock slowly.   
“Ride or suck?” He asked and she swallowed hard before she whispered: “It’s on you to decide how you want me to satisfy you.”  
“No, Millie, that’s not how it works, and you know that.”  
“But ...”  
“No. I’m in charge, but I won’t force you to do things you don’t want.”  
“What if I want neither ride nor suck?” She asked, shrugging.   
“Propose something different. Want me to bend you over the table and take you from behind? Just say what you like. You’re aroused, you want me as much as I want you. There’s no need for denying, sweetheart.”  
She was silent for a few seconds, thinking of putting up a fight. But it was ridiculous after what had happened only minutes ago. Plus, she tried to live after his rules. No fights about nothing. She wanted him, she wanted to satisfy him and wanted to find pleasure in his arms. So, why fighting? Millicent sunk on her knees and sucked him off, without any other word. She was allowed to attend the picnic on Saturday, she’d found a way to stop the itching in her nipples and Arthur was the happiest man in the world, having his pregnant wife on her knees in front of him, sucking him off before serving dinner.   
And no, there were worse ways to live a life. Millicent knew that.


End file.
